Because It's the World
by rini6
Summary: Typical Sandsian fare. I'm a first time writer. You know the drill  no pun intended ..feedback is much appreciated. New Chapter up soon... PROMISE.. Also, unique ending planned.
1. Chapter 1

It was a friggin drill, with medieval claws, perfect for removing, well, you know.

November second, two thousand and three -

He thought the pain would kill him. How could the human body endure this? The fear, though, was just as bad. The entire world was ripped away from him. Gone. No sun no. No color. No light. No darkness. Just, nothing. He was suffocating. He was breathing like a fish thrown onto the deck of a pushed him and laughed at him.

Suddenly, the sounds of the street were all around. There were cars and small trucks. He could hear old ladies talk about the marketplace and the sounds of kids playing.

The rest of that day of the dead was about staying alive.

You know when you're so scared that suddenly everything is surreal? Part of you cannot believe what's happening is actually, um, happening. You know it's not a dream though and that realization makes your stomach feel like it does when you go on one of those rides. You know, the kind where they drop you and you fall straight down. What is it? 9.8 meters per second of acceleration every second? Gravity, constantly pulling, no, sucking you down towards the fire pit at the center of the earth.

I had never been involved in a dangerous situation. So accidentally running into a coup d'etat sets off every panic button in my being. I was supposed to volunteer for a free clinic; I had had this sudden maternal desire to make the world better for a few people. What is wrong with me? I am now in the streets of Mexico with my horrible sense of direction and my only recently acquired understanding of Spanish. The clinic? Who knows? Maybe they had to move or abandon operations all together. It should be here and it's not.

My rental car will eventually run out of gas. I think I already have. Got to pull over and collect myself. Where is the map? Papers, too many, old wrappers, shopping bags and who knows what else take up the passenger seat and the floor of the car.

What? Through the windows and the locked doors of my little coup I hear a pleading voice. It's a kid in a yellow shirt and it's Spanish, yay. "Señorita, señorita!, que necesita ayuda. Es una emergencia!" He's riding his little bicycle towards me. He has to be no more than ten years old and he sounds desperate. I'm nervous and scared. Yet, here I am rolling down the window for a total stranger in a foreign country in the middle of some sort of revolution; smart. He continues talking but it's way too fast. Why the hell did I take French in high school? That new Rosetta Stone program was helpful, though. 'Concentrate, damn it.' Apparently, there is a "persona herida." He beckons me and I drive, slowly as he pedals his little legs off. We do this for three or four blocks, past fires and in the dust. Is that a body? I don't want to know. I look straight ahead and ignore the dead. It's, horrifyingly akin to the way I look away from road kill in the U.S.

There he is, slumped against a brick wall. The setting sun has made him into a silhouette and I can't see details until we get closer but he seems to be dressed like someone out of a Sergio Leone western. He has about four guns on him. Am I hallucinating? Have my nerves finally driven me over the edge?

After pulling over, I follow the kid to him. My stomach is in knots. I am not a trauma physician and medical school was a few years ago. Is he conscious? What if I can't save him because I forgot something basic? Ok, he's breathing. That's good. ABC. Airway breathing circulation. It's C that could be a problem. He's bleeding from multiple wounds and looks pale. I touch him on the chest. "sir?," um, "señor?". He looks American but who knows? He doesn't respond. Or was that a tiny flinch? Probably not. Okay we have a wound in each thigh and his left upper arm. What is it again? Add bullets in the body and bullet holes. The number should be even. Yeah that's it. The bleeding on his face is not a gunshot wound. WTF it looks like the wound is confined to the area behind his large black Ray Bans. Almost surgical. I grab at the sunglasses and a gloved hand materializes around my wrist. It hurts. How could he be this fast and strong?

"Don't " It's not a request. It's a command. And I get the feeling that there will be consequences if I ignore him. Not that I could. He has not let go of my arm.

"I'm sorry, I'm a physician and I'm trying to see how bad your injuries are."

"I know" He has this grim determination. "Just,... Don't. You don't want to. Okay?"

"Ok, let's get you to a hospital." I don't want to waste any precious "golden hour" time arguing with a guy who is obviously out of his cranium with blood loss and agony. But why does he seem so controlled and calm? Part of me realizes that he knows exactly what's going on. He knows how severely injured he is.

Still, he's not logical. "No." It looks like it takes an effort for him to talk. "You say you're a doctor? Can't you treat me? Or at least try to keep me alive? "

"I'm not a trauma specialist. I have been doing outpatient medicine, not surgery. I

have zero experience with gunshot wounds."

"Fuck. Just do your best. If I die, at least this will be over and I won't feel like shit." His pale death pallor suddenly develops sallow undertones. "Crap." He starts heaving and I help him sit upright so that he can throw up without choking. This is going to be delightful.

Yet, somehow, it's not the worst thing, to be needed like this. I did come to this god forsaken country to help people. This wasn't the exact plan, but it looks like there aren't too many other options. I can't just leave him and I think he has more than one reason for staying away from he hospital. And yeah, it still feels like some sort of dream or a Dali painting. I'm on an adrenaline induced autopilot. No time for endless introspection and obsessive attention to detail. Feels good.

The kid has been watching us the entire time. "We have to get you out of here. Can you help?" I look at him. He jumps into action. He obviously understands some English. I just wish he was bigger and stronger. Hell, I wish I was bigger and stronger. How the crap are we going to get him into the car?

I pull the car up as close as I can and I grab a bottle of water. "Can you drink? He is obviously dehydrated. The vomiting did not help. "Not too fast." He was obviously thirsty. I grab a paper towel from the car and help him clean up a little. The blood is pretty much crusted onto his face but some comes off. The paper towel turns dark red. We are going to need medical supplies. And where the hell are we going to take him?

"Can you stand at all? I don't think we can carry you."

"Whatever. Just do it." He looks resigned and weak. This is not good. What if he doesn't make it? I push that thought back into the recesses of my brain and look at the kid.

"We have to help him into the back seat."

Somehow, with grunting and groaning on my part and some wincing on his, we get him into the car. He lays down in the back seat so gingerly it hurts to watch. Fuck. I can't believe this.

"Is there some sort of hotel we can go to?"

"We get out Culiacan first. I can't stay here. The people who did this to me will finish what they started." He's so coherent, it's scary.

Oh great. People still want to kill him? Isn't what he's been through, enough? Also, I'm sure whoever wants to get him will not hesitate to get me and the kid out of the way. Ok, now I hate this. Really, I do.

Yet, there is still that adrenaline rush. The kind that helps you focus like a laser and do what you need to do in order to survive.

The pharmacist did not ask questions. We got pain meds antibiotics saline, gauze, medical tape and more water. I also got him some Gatorade and crackers. He would only vomit more if he took the meds on an empty stomach and I doubt he's eaten recently.

Turns out, I'm supposed to call him Jeff. The kid is Albert, or Alberto. He isn't picky and he speaks some English. I realize that I want to know more about this surreal cowboy but I know he's not in any shape for a conversation at this point. Frankly, it would be more merciful if he was unconscious, which I think he is, intermittently. He's quiet, now. Of course it's hard to tell with those sun glasses. What the hell is going on under those dark lenses? It doesn't look like a fall or a gunshot. Did someone hone in on injuring his eyes? What was he involved in that someone would do that?What kind of person was he and whose side was he on? Ok, I know. I don't even know exactly what's going on or who I'm rooting for, so why should I care?


	2. Chapter 2

We put his holsters and guns in the trunk.

I'm trying to miss the holes and rocks in the dirt road but it's impossible and he's groaning intermittently from the back seat. The kid is trying to hold him and prevent him from crashing into the front seats or onto the floor of the car. He's still getting jostled and when your body is shredded to bits, it doesn't help.

When we are far enough out of town I pull over. There is some shade. Thankfully it's November. So it's only in the eighties, not nineties or above, and there is the occasional breeze.

We get him out of the car, despite the epithets and insults. The kid is a great help. Really, I couldn't do this myself. I have a sleeping bag laying out on the dusty ground and we place him on it. Rather, we struggle with him as he tells us how incompetent we are and describes us as "fuckers who aren't intelligent enough to leave me the hell alone."

'sigh'

Between my cajoling, and a moment of semiconsciousness, on his part, I manage to get each of the wounds on his legs washed out with saline and covered in gauze and a tegaderm-like bandage. I do the same for his left arm. He's definitely not going to like what we've done to his outfit. I am pretty certain that he's a metro. An outfit like that doesn't assemble itself.

I have already gotten him to swallow the levofloxacin and the hydrocodone with some cheez-its. He's sedate enough that I decide to sneak a look under his Raybans.

Oh, my fucking god.

Just, oh my fucking god.

I don't vomit easily. Really I don't. I'm a friggin doctor.

It's good we have a lot of bottled water. I wash my mouth out. Several times. The kid looks at me. Then, he looks at the cowboy. Shit. He shouldn't have to see this. But he isn't fazed "tomaron sus oyos." Apparently, he knew. All that I can see are two bloody, um, sockets.

"I guess I left my eyes In San Francisco." He actually smiles, sort of shyly. Is he trying to put us at ease? He seems almost embarrassed. "My mother always did tell me that I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached. At least I remembered most of it." For a second I see a glimpse of an incredible smile. The kind that lets some guys get with murder; usually only figuratively. But in Mexico, you never know. Of course, his facial muscles tighten right back unto a stoic expression that is really a mask of agony. Damn pills. Do your work.

"You must be in a shitload of pain." Somehow, after his previous diatribe, I am not concerned about keeping my language clean. I only hope the kid isn't listening too carefully although I'm pretty certain that he is.

"Well, yeah. The pills are starting to take the edge off, though." "Thanks". He pauses to take in an a breath that is a little too irregular and a little too rapid. "Sorry about the whole noncooperative pain in the ass thing. I appreciate all that you guys are doing. And why ARE you doing this? Don't you have, like, your own lives?"

Ok. Thank us. And, then, in the same breath, dismiss what we're doing. Is he trying to be rude or is it an unconscious behavior?

"I came to this country to provide medical care those in need. I didn't see it happening this way, but helping those in need is exactly what I'm doing"

"So it's a charity or pity thing. This is just precious. I know I'm going to wake up soon and in place of you guys, I'll have my eyeballs"

Really, what am I going to say?

I'm intentionally switching my focus. I've been irresponsible. The kid likely has people who are worried about him. He doesn't have a phone and I don't see any other way that he could let people know where he is. Shit, I've probably taken him way too far from home.

"¿Su familia sabe dónde está?" (Does your family know where you are?) Cool. It came out in Spanish and was somewhat understandable.

Forgetting himself, the kid launches into a stream of speed of light Spanish. Something about his mother being away. And something about siblings. He mentioned the drug cartels. Damn cartels. They are like permanent shadow of Mordor (nerd alert) hanging over everything in Sinaloa.

"Usted no tiene a nadie?" (You have no one?)This is getting sad. He's such a great kid.

"Nadie" (no one)He's looking down at his feet and shifting his weight back and forth.

"Ahora, usted está con nosotros," I look him in the eye. "You're with us. Get it?"

"Si" His voice is more confident and there is a hint of a smile.

We have to get to a town. Perhaps one off the beaten path. I don't want us to be somewhere predictable. I don't know how much effort the cartel will put into finding Sands. And I'm not about to find out. I want to ask him for advice. But the pain killers and bandages have made him comfortable enough that he's actually in some sort of fitful unconsciousness and I'm not bringing him back into this world until he's ready. If I were him, I'd prefer coma to dealing with the horrific and permanent reality of constant darkness. Or maybe it's not even dark, but blank; just nothingness. That sick feeling is coming back.

After an hour or so of driving we come upon a small town; hopefully, small enough to be overlooked by the cartel. The boy has been talking excitedly about the events of the day. Or, at least his interpretation of them. I mean, really? He killed three cartel goons after his eyes were gouged out? Exciting, but likely embellished. I'm not going to rain on the kid's parade, though. Mr. Pistolero is still sleeping, I think. He's breathing slowly and he's quiet.

The town is large enough that we find gas food and somewhere to stay. It's small enough to be inexpensive and friendly. Hopefully, it's big enough to give us a little anonymity. But I doubt it. Even if we were able to blend in eventually; and we're not, evidenced by our entrance with a wounded gunman complete with bandages and blood to accompany his all black outfit drama. The cursing and threatening did not help matters. I understood that he wanted to exercise some sort of control when possible and that pain and painkillers can lower inhibitions but his grandstanding was wearing my patience down to a nub.


	3. Chapter 3

The days pass quickly. He developed a low grade fever that eventually broke. I kept cleaning and re-bandaging his wounds. This nursing stuff was, unsurprisingly, a lot of work. I helped him to the bathroom. I helped him in the bathroom, to his chagrin. He didn't have much choice in the beginning. The staff at the inn were surprisingly discreet and understanding. The kid, I mean Albert; he does have a name, continues to be a godsend. Not only does he run every sort of errand that we request, he helps on his own initiative and usually displays reasonably good judgment. More than that, he connects us to the staff and the people in the town in a way that we couldn't connect ourselves, despite the fact that I can speak some Spanish, and the Dali inspired cowboy is fluent. We are trusted because Alberto trusts us.

The sun saps our energy and we sleep during a large part of the day. The fans in our room are not inadequate when you have been spoiled by air-conditioning. Yes. We share a room. There was one left and why spend more money? I change in the bathroom. The boy does too, making do with clothing that we can find at the market. Sands makes do as well, although with a hell of a lot more kvetching. Weirdly, I understand. He can't see a fucking thing but that doesn't mean that he has suddenly become a giant dork who wears flowery shirts, sandals with socks and high waisted pants.

He starts to walk more and is learning to get around. He's understandably mortified by his,"situation" which is like a hundred horrible outfits, all at once. I try to guide him discretely as we venture into the hallway and down into the main room. His pain is becoming manageable and his wounds are turning into healthy pink scar (granulation) tissue. He does become incapacitated by sudden and severe "thunderclap" headaches. An MRI is not an option and I'm betting on partly exposed optic nerves and a migraine-like response to certain stimuli as the cause.

It's been three weeks and he is by no means back to his previous strength. He still has a slight limp. He is beginning to function, though. We eat at a small cantina. Some of them actually allow women and children now and when no one says anything about our entrance I decide to go with it. Sands is finally starting to trust me enough to actually speak in paragraphs like a normal human being instead of speaking in one line quips and spending the rest of the time listening with suspicion and judgment. It's a relief. I knew he had a sense of humor but I didn't know that he was friggin educated on every topic known to man, including pop culture. You don't get to be erudite and academic as well as hip and knowing. How does that happen. Damn him. Of course, Alberto laps up every word that he can from our English conversations. We throw in Spanish for him when possible, although Mr cowboy does it with much more ease. Again, damn him. I'm used to being the brightest in the room. This is messing with my head. I find myself intermittently horrified when I think he's caught me staring at him; watching his smooth movements and marveling at his ability to figure out ways around his blindness.

I realize that I'm pretty much marveling at every aspect of him and I feel like a Bieber-headed tween. How embarrassing. Did not plan this. I know that this is usually how it happens but, really? This guy is a hardened CIA agent with a body count in the double digits. He is now bitter and suffering. We are on the run. Oh god. "On the run," like a stupid song or bad fiction. This does not really happen. It can't really be happening or I'd pretty much vomit up everything I've eaten today in a huge burst of pure unadulterated fear. I am not a brave woman. So. I decide that I'm going to pretend that we're perfectly safe. I'm going to pretend that I'm not internally gushing over this man and I am going to carry on. Only that's not actually possible and I know it.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the past three weeks I have pretty much blabbed about my entire life. I think he knows everything from my Apgar scores to how I felt about my breakfast that morning. He knows my feelings on high vs low waisted jeans, my opinions on our current president and every quibble that I have with the Spanish language (mainly, that it's not English, damn it.) We've just had a light lunch and sent Alberto back to hang out with the son of the people who own the inn. Actually, my lunch was largely liquid; some overly sweet cheap wine that tasted like fermented kool aid. But it did the job. I'm feeling somewhat giddy, if a little woozy in the warm weather. Damn, it's almost December. This heat thing is getting old. I wonder how he's feeling. He still has a limp and I don't think his appetite has returned to normal. His stamina, despite his attempts to remain stoic is derailed by pain and weakness. Still, all in all, he's making an amazing recovery. Three weeks ago he was a walking, barely, carcass.

I gaze at him. Now, thanks to the vino, I really don't care that he always knows when stare. I love the way that his hair is always all over the place. Several strands fall over his sunglasses I love the way that he calls his Ray Bans his "eyes." He runs his hand through his hair, which will keep it out of his face for a few seconds before the strands fall victim to gravity again. He smiles. "What are you thinking about? It's been a full ten minutes without nervous chatter."

"You know, you're really on the road to recovery. I was just thinking how good it was to see that." Damn, I can't really gauge his reaction. I have a feeling that he was always inscrutable. The whole "no eyes" thing hasn't helped. The sunglasses take up a third of his face. "If I remember correctly, you were not doing so well when I first met you." I smile at him like he can see me.

"Aww, that's sweet. You care." He's really straddling the line now. He's on the edge of sarcasm. But, also, he sort of means it. It feels as if he is scrutinizing me with his eyes. Of course, that's not exactly possible, but his amused smile adds to the illusion.

"Um, I did kind of put in a little effort and time into getting you back on your feet." Why does this make me feel so exposed? "I would think the whole caring thing was already self evident." Oh fuck, I feel like a dizzy tween again. What am I getting myself into? Relax, idiot, and stop this whole self conscious crap. Let Mr Vino do his work and just smile. "Uh, you know, I have been an open book and, well, you haven't told me anything about yourself." Boy, I've passed the point of no return now. No pretending I'm not interested any more.

He's exhaling two identical plumes of white smoke through his nostrils like only a real smoker does. I wonder what the chances are that he'll die young from heart disease or cancer due to his habit. At the same time, I realize that it's a definite turn on. Sigh.

"What do you want to know?"

I think the wine is affecting him as well. He is amazingly candid. He grew up an army brat until his father left. His family had lived in about ten different states, including Hawaii as well as in Europe and Japan. He had two sisters. One is a married physician and one is a roadie for an alternative/college band. I cannot say his family isn't diverse. He works for the U.S. government and was in Mexico to investigate the drug cartels. He was specifically investigating the Barillo cartel. He hints that he knew that the coup d'etat was coming and that he thought he had things under control when someone he trusted turned out to be part of the cartel. Before he knew it, he was in a dark room with a vicious "doctor" who started to drill he eyes out. Apparently, this was the penalty for spying on the cartel. After his little surgical procedure, he was pushed out onto the street alone, and blind. He doesn't say it but it's obvious that this was one of the most frightening things he had ever experienced. Fortunately, he heard a bicycle and it's little bell. He knew it was the same bike he had seen a boy riding while selling gum. And it was Alberto. Alberto helped save him and through luck and good hearing, he was able kill a cartel thug who seemed to be either watching him or sent to kill him, while sustaining the shot to his left arm. He then ended up participating in gunplay in the town square and managed to dispatch a few cartel guys before getting wounded even further, in the legs. He pauses and I know that there are things he is leaving out.

I have been more physical in this, um, relationship than usual. It started with the injuries and he touches my elbow when he needs me to guide him, of course. But it has become more than that. No, not what you're thinking. I just mean that we touch. He has touched my face on many occasions and we constantly have our hands on one another's back or arm. I think we've both grown used to it.

It's good.


	5. Chapter 5

It's time.

We have to move on. Too long in any one place and the cartels, or worse, the CIA might find him...us. But it's got to end at one point, no? I mean, he cannot run forever. What the hell are we going to do? Yes, it's "we" now. It happened without any fanfare: nocandles (really, now, they would only be for me, anyway) no fancy dinner or late night dancing.

The afternoon was hot and we wanted to get inside. He was still under doctor's orders (oh wait, that's me) not to overexert himself. Still, when I saw it, I knew it was going to be mine. It was simple and plain, but it was a guitar. I was sick and tired of trying to fill the empty hole in my days: the empty hole that should have been filled with music. I would rather have had a piano. But, um, for obvious reasons it wasn't a practical option. I had been playing guitar for only a couple of years, not decades starting with the obligatory mean piano teacher in early elementary school. Still, reading music and sounding out tunes was easy. The chords? Not so much. Steel strings and non calloused fingertips equals mucho complaining. Mr. Johnny Cash wanna be took it in stride. Well, until the whining hit a fever pitch.

There was really only one way to silence me, short of involving bullets. And he wasn't about to kill the woman who helped him to safety and nursed his wounds. So, before I knew it, his hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder. He pulled me in (How someone can be so strong with healing bullet wounds is happy medical mystery to me.) Before I knew it, the wonderful warm feeling of lips on lips and tongue on tongue engulfed me. He held me in his arms and the rest was an inevitable cascade of physical excitement and, yes, a sort of closeness. It was temporally interrupted by the search for some, um. "protection." The rest left us in a state of serenity. He even offered me the proverbial cigarette. And despite the fact that I could list thirty different diseases that it would accelerate or cause, I enjoyed it, damn it.

"So where do we go from here?" looked at Alberto and Sands. Personally, I knew I would feel safer in the U.S. But I didn't want to leave Alberto. We couldn't leave him until we found someone to take care of him. Eventually, Sands got some info out of the kid and we made a phone call. The kid's maternal uncle was up to the task. When he heard that Alberto had no one, he was more than happy to take him in. He had kids so the situation for Alberto looked bright. Somehow, he did not see it that way. There were tears and pleas for reconsideration. English went out the window. ''Señor y doctora," He was always polite, if a bit formal. "¿Tiene que volver a los Estados Unidos?" Apparently, he had mixed feelings. He was ecstatic about the idea of living with his cousins, but didn't want us to leave. It gave me that sinking feeling in my stomach when he looked at us. He glanced at Sands, but knew that pleading stares were not going to do much for him. Instead he went up and gave him this great big embarrassing child sized bear hug. I almost cracked up, despite the situation. Sands was really, um, blindsided by it and was actually a bit tongue tied. This is man who cracked jokes with bullet holes in three of his four extremities and bloody caverns for eyes. He put his arms around the kid and just stood there. Soon, my cheeks started to become wet and I became a bit sniffly. The two hours to his uncle's home in Durango was quiet and sad with quick good byes. By the time we pulled away, Alberto was playfully fighting over a turn at at bat with his cousin's secondhand whiffle ball set.

We made it to General Guadalupe Victoria International Airport by evening and were in La Guardia by midday EST the next day. Sands had pretty much left all of his stuff in Culiacan. The valuables that he left in storage could stay in DC for now. I just wanted to get back to my apt in NYC. I felt so safe back in the U.S. It was as if Mexico never happened. Well, ok, not really.. I was now hanging out with this slightly insane, snarky, alternatively despondent and gleefully evil, damaged but somehow still vital and beautiful man...for better or for worse.

Well, it turned out that way... for better and for worse, I mean.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the unseasonable warmth, New York felt cold and clammy. It was raining.

We ran, without umbrellas, and dragging too much luggage: a lot of it his, thank you very much. The uncomfortable realization that I was also self conscious about leading him around crept up and caught me in it's claws. It was the same feeling that I had when going out with my now deceased mother who was in a wheelchair due to MS: stupid family dynamics and old hang-ups.

He had sighed repeatedly at the Airport security measures. Everyone was, understandably, slightly on edge since 9/11. Not only was this his first time throughout security since the extra measures were instated, but this was the first time he had to go through as a disabled person. We tried to discreetly go through with the rest of the crowd. However, a sharp eyed security employee noticed his sunglasses and his hand on my elbow. We were ushered through which was nice, but mortifying. He didn't say as much. He didn't have to.

I looked at him. He seemed tired and with his long, now disheveled,, hair resembled a dog that has just shaken itself after a bath. Still, he gave me his magnetic smile and said "Ah, 'The City that Never Sleeps,' 'The Big Apple,' 'Gotham,' 'Empire City,' 'The City So Nice, They Named it Twice' 'The City.' I missed our big messy country with it's big messy cities."

"Me too." And I was not lying. I had been homesick, and it may sound weird to some, but, to me, New York felt like home. "I could tell, though, that the crowded sidewalks and the ridiculous traffic were unsettling and disorienting for him. He had a hesitation and an uncertainty in his step that he didn't have in the quiet Mexican town.

It's always fun to hail a cab in the rain during rush hour. But eventually we found one and ran through a disgusting city puddle to beat any other potential passengers to the punch.

Sands started conversing with the cabbie in Punjabi. He was not completely fluent, I don't think, but he was able to impress the cabbie who gave us his card and told us that he would get us from anywhere in manhattan if we called him.

We got out of the cab with our luggage. We were tired and hungry and in a downpour. We were both, incredibly, unfazed and our mood, at least, was un- dampened. The grey sky was gradually turning black. Street lights started glowing.

"You definitely have the gift of gab, on a global level." "You could sell anything."

"What do you think I was doing in Cuilican?" He grabbed my shoulders, "I was influencing political outcomes by selling ideas," "I have another idea."

My makeup had probably dripped down to my ankles and my clothing clung to me, His hair was saturated and his sunglasses appeared to need mini windsheild wipers.

We stood in the rain drenched and dripping without umbrellas, holding each other and kissing as if the gray/black sky was mistletoe. He lifted me up and did a 180. He put me back down and held my back. We kept our lips together as if the contact was oxygen. And we didn't stop


	7. Chapter 7

I was the one who picked New York. We could have gone back to my place in Piscataway, but lord knows we were not going to deal with roommates and makeshift accommodations. Sure, the holiday season in New York could be crowded but we could cope with that. He swore he would kill me though, if I tried to get him to go Christmas shopping in Macy's. No way would he even entertain the thought of dealing with the teaming masses.

Apparently, Jeff had squirreled away some money while in Mexico, which made the city a whole lot easier to deal with. I did not ask about the origins of the money. There were too many possibilities that I didn't want to know about; at least not right away. We were able to stay in nice hotel.

On the first morning we ordered in. Room service was prompt with wonderful eggs, sausage and waffles. He was actually getting an appetite again.

It was new to wake up in the same bed. Things were different between us now. Yet they were also the same. Does that make sense? It did then. Everything was more intense: the touches, our words, our laughter. the museum of Natural History was not new to me. Yet it seemed different. I was seeing things through his eyes (yuck it up all you want, you know what I mean.) Everything was new and different. Sounds, touch and smell gave things a different shape than seeing did. I could tell through his reactions and he pretty much told me "I feel like a pioneering astronaut on a strange new planet. Or a newborn trying to organize it's sensory input." He was unsuccessfully trying to ignore and deny his pain, though. That was one new sensory input that he wasn't particularly fond of. The arm and leg wounds only bothered him if he pushed things too far and didn't get enough rest. The headaches and stabbing pains that went right through his "eyes" were not so manageable. It was just that any visit to a physician would have to be under an alias, unless he wanted the CIA to know he was still alive. It was a little hard to go incognito when your chief complaint is "Someone scooped my eyeballs out of their sockets."

Why was he hiding from his bosses. Why not let them know what happened. Perhaps he would get a desk job. Perhaps he would get disability. I'm sure he would have issues with both possibilities, yet it seemed to be more than that. Not to be melodramatic, but he seemed to be on the run for his life. We were so close, yet there were things I knew better than to ask him about. Anything about the CIA and his plans was pretty much verboten.

I thought I had some understanding of the events in Mexico. I had a feeling that he was involved with some people who were, um, "shady," to put it nicely. He also told me about a mariachi who was adept at music and legendary for his ability to survive while leaving a huge body count of cartel thugs. At first I thought it was his weird sense of humor. But when he discussed the Mariachi's involvement in the coup and their meeting, I realized that this was a real person... I think.

It was also obvious that he was playing all sides and juggling multiple deals and alliances. How he had gotten so screwed over and why he didn't call for backup or help in the Day of the Dead, I still don't understand.

We saw the new musical, "Wicked" at the Gershwin. It was a lot of fun. I could tell, though, that his enjoyment was muted by is obvious inability to get the full "experience.". He clenched his jaw intermittently and talked about musicals that he had seen in the past.

On our way back to the hotel, he started to sing softly. He didn't break into song every day and I was a little surprised.

There's a hole in the world like a great black pit

And the vermin of the world inhabit it

And it's morals aren't worth what a pig could spit

And it goes by the name of London...

I knew he was referring to more than nineteenth century London: perhaps Mexico, perhaps more than that...

Of course - Sweeney Todd and "No Place Like London" are property of Stephen Sondheim… not me. :-


	8. Chapter 8

The blood was already oozing down my right side. But the adrenaline didn't let my thoughts wander towards my injury. They we still in our room and they were armed. Time slowed down and this became someone else's action movie. It certainly wasn't my life. But it was.

The edge of my visual field caught the image of Jeff with his glock, standing with both legs planted firmly in a wide stance like he was the hero in some sort of old western. He looked calm but I knew he was listening carefully. One of the intruders fell and gripped his abdomen. Both of them stumbled towards the exit sign and, likely, down the stairs and out of the building. Jeff moved to follow them. "Are you insane? Do you have a death wish?" I jumped between him and the anonymous attackers. "Call 911." Forgive me for deciding to take a "normal" course of action.

"We cannot get anyone involved. No police." I heard him whispering this as my ears were ringing and black spots covered everything.

I expected to wake up in the hospital like a normal injured person in a first world country. Silly me. I was in the hotel room and he was packing our stuff. It wasn't easy for him to find everything but he was doing a decent job of it. Ok, this breathing thing. I will never take it for granted again. I tensed up each time I inhaled a breath of air anticipation the searing pain, which didn't kept it's appointment promptly twenty or so times a minute. How can someone hurt this much and still be alive? He heard me stir and found his way to the bed. He sat down next to me.

"Am I dying?"

He was actually suppressing a laugh. Then he smiled. "You're the doctor, but I don't think people usually die from an abrasion and a bruised rib."

Are you kidding me? "How do you know that's all that it is?" I'm trying to examine myself but I'm afraid to touch the actual wound and I'm feeling nauseous and foggy.

"I have a friend who knows medical people in the area who are, um, discreet."

"What do you mean 'medical people?' "

I had someone examine you and give you a shot of pain medication. You've been out for two hours.

"So it wasn't a physician?"

"He's an EMT. He knows what he's doing."

"Oh god "

"Listen. Even I can tell that it was just a nick. The bullet grazed you. You bled for a few minutes and then it stopped. Deep wounds don't do that. You don't need Dr. friggin House to figure it out."

I looked down again. The bandaged area was not that large and I wasn't bleeding anymore. It actually did feel like a bad scrape and a painful rib. "I guess I'm pretty pathetic, passing out over a minor boo boo," I'm sure that I'm turning bright red. I am now mortified. He endured about a hundred times more and was cracking jokes. At least I didn't pee myself. I don't think so, anyway. "How did you get me back into the room?"

"You're not that heavy, you know."

I cannot imagine trying to find your way down a hallway in the dark while carrying a hundred pounds (ok, a hundred and ten. But I am not a tall woman.) He's smiling and it looks like he is gazing at me. And he is, in his own way. I am feeling pretty floaty right now. Everything is soft and comfy. The pain is only bad when I shift my weight in the bed. Breathing is getting easier. I'm starting to drift off into a deep reparative sleep.

"We have to go...Now"

Come again?

"They left to get re enforcements. They will be back and there will be a lot more of them."

"Um, who exactly is after you?"

"You mean, us"

"What?"

"You are aiding and abetting my escape and you know too much."

"What the hell do I know that is worth killing me?"

"The attempted coup. The Mariachis. The fact that our government actually wanted the president to die." He put a hand over his forehead and pressed on his temples. "We were working with Barillo and his network in order to suppress leftist rebels in several South American countries since the 1980's. The rebels are pretty ragtag at this point but Barillo still supported some of our interests. I not only didn't help Barillo, I actually recruited an FBI agent to get rid of him. I knew that I was taking a risk. However, I didn't know how much of one. For all I know, Barillo could have blinded me at the request of our own government. I'm beginning to expect that they have wanted me dead for a while now. I'm not supposed to be here and you are not supposed to know about any of this. You certainly aren't suppose to be helping me."

"Why did we come back to the U.S if we were in such danger?"

"I don't know if Mexico was much safer. I didn't exactly get out of there without a scratch. I didn't realize the extent to which they'd go either. I did not want to drag you into this." He sighed and "looked" down at his feet. "Trust me. I did not want to get either of us so deep in the shit."

Deep in the shit. That's pretty apt.

I'm sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. It hurts so much and takes me the better part of a minute to get my feet touching the floor. He takes my hand and helps me up. "Here." These are for the pain. He hands me a small unmarked bottle. I put it in my pocket

"Where are we going?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Maybe we'd be safer in Canada?"

"Doubtful" He was speaking softly. The back of a cab was as much privacy as they had at the moment and it was unlikely the cab driver would understand what we were talking about if we spoke in vague terms, let alone act on the information.

However, you cannot be too careful. It's one of those truisms that are, well, true.

Sands had my head in his lap. I didn't really think sitting upright was the best position for me at this point. My side was definitely sore. The bleeding had stopped, though.

"If they are chasing me on U.S. soil, they will chase me anywhere. This is one of those times when the rule is.. there are no rules, just get the job done. And the job is getting rid of us. We saw too much, for lack of a better term, and they want to make sure that it doesn't happen again."

My friggin' god. We are in a Tom Cruise movie.

The cigarette smoke vapors came solely from Sands. I miss the smell of cigarettes in cabs. They're all non-smoking now. I smelled a subtle incensey sort of fragrance and general old taxi scents. I thought I could smell my own blood, but I assumed I was imagining things.

We got off at good old Penn Station and walked down the stairs (does the escalator ever work? At this point I think it's only there because no one bothered to remove it.)

Jeff had a plan. He said, in so many words, that this was pretty much our only option. "This is plan B and C through Z."

"Yeah that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I can really relax now. And the pain in my side really helps matters."

Still, there was something so sure and certain about his planning. It was obvious that this sort of scheming and strategizing was second nature to him now. The details just poured out of his mouth and I tried to write the main points down.

Apparently, the CIA was good at tracking people down and it would be impossible to run from them for any length of time. We were going to get to Langley, Virginia for a little visit to the headquarters. Likely, they wouldn't kill us on the base and Sands would be given time to explain himself. If the incident was at all publicized we couldn't really turn up dead now, could we? Well there was Vincent Foster, but that was suicide and Paul Wellstone's plane crash was just plain bad luck.

We both hoped that we looked anonymous sitting on uncomfortable Amtrak seats. Jeff's injuries were pretty invisible at this point, except for the whole sunglasses in any lighting thing, until he had to walk around, and even then, he was pretty good at hiding his new disability. Disabled...I'm relatively certain that he is having some difficulty adjusting to that word. I'm certain enough that I am not going to bring it up.

I think he's sleeping because his breathing is slow and deep but he turns his head to me and says. "I can't believe we're traveling together like some old married couple." He smiles and I get the idea that it is not a bad thing as far as he's concerned.

"Yeah, all those old married couples on the run from the CIA. I think they escape I'm between soccer and PTA meetings."

He leans into me. As we're kissing I feel the small silver pistol that's crammed into my waist under my belt. I also feel his glock and another gun of his pressing against me. Yeah, I wonder why we decided to take the train. Of course, we planned to get off early and grabbing a rental car. Hopefully, the change of transportation would give them less chance of finding us.

We're still going through New Jersey and I don't like what I see. I am really not attuned to this sort of thing but I see a guy who looks like he is tracking us. I describe his actions and appearance to Jeff who becomes visibly uncomfortable and let's out a soft "fuck."

He starts to kiss me again and then whispers in my ear. "We are going to have to make a break for it at the Trenton stop." "Keep your pistol ready.". He pauses, "I'm so sorry that you have to be involved in this crap."

"It feels like a movie"

"Good. Keep thinking like that." He gives my a small grin and I hug him tightly, trying to postpone the danger.


	10. Chapter 10

Needless to say, we exit the train cautiously. I hang onto his sleeve as I'm the blind one. If we stick with the crowd, we'll be safer. We stop in a stairwell and kiss. Reckless? Perhaps. But we are quickly on our way.

"You have to be the eyes for both of us." He sighs as if it's painful to admit. And I sure it is. The way that he's dealt with all of this so far is by staying in motion. As if he'd suffocate like a shark if he stood still. I'm sure it feels like that. But can his body keep up?

"How are your legs holding up?"

"Fine"

"Your arm?"

"Fine"

Um, yeah, it's obvious by the thin tense line his mouth turns into and the furrows between his eyebrows that he is lying. And he's not even bothering to put any effort into it.

"Come on. You can lie better than that. I know you can."

"Stop pretending to know me so well. And stop being right" There is a hint of mirth in his voice and on his face. "Is your side feeling any better?"

"Meh. I can tolerate it." Actually, I had forgotten about it. That was an encouraging sign.

We decide to take a cab, despite the ridiculous expense, to the Philadelphia International airport and hop a flight to Virginia.

On the plane, we're both starving and starting too relax a little. We both order coffee. So does the guy across the aisle.

I put my hand on Sand's leg. He finally seems less tense. He puts his head back to rest adding one self conscious adjustment to his shades. I could tell that it still bothered him to bare any of his recent injury. His breathing slowed a bit. I put my head on his shoulder and curled up in the seat. Being small and practicing yoga had its advantages. My stupid bladder wouldn't let me sleep. A few obligatory "excuse me"s later I was pulling the small knob to the right, changing it to "occupado." I was washing my hands when I heard frantic cries for a doctor. "Shit."

I pretty much ran down the aisle almost yelling that I was a physician. Damn it, though. I wish some other doc had beaten me to the emergency. There was an ashen guy on the floor and the flight attendant was kneeling next to him, getting ready to start CPR. I double checked for a pulse or any sign of respiration...none. His mouth was slightly open. He was middle aged and his suit jacket and shirt were open, revealing that he didn't quite get to the gym often enough. I was going to bet on huge myocardial infarction. I let her start compressions and I started bagging the guy. Thank god for medical kits. I asked around while squeezing the large hard plastic bulb every five seconds. He was traveling alone. Apparently, he complained of shortness of breath, grabbed his throat and collapsed. Had he been eating or chewing gum? I don't know if anyone checked his airway for an obstruction. The only thing people remembered was that he was drinking coffee. I looked at his face again. He was the guy across the aisle who got coffee at the same time that we did. I hadn't thought it was weird when the flight attendant paused to reach into a drawer of the cart. But hindsight is always 20/20. (Jeff would have given me a sample of self conscious humor if I had said that aloud.)

Damn it.

After a half hour, we called the code and announced the time of death.

Not to be repetitive, but

Damn it.


	11. Chapter 11

Eventually we land, with the body in Hampton, Virginia near the air force base. We are in trouble. Someone knew we were on that flight. We decide to hole up in a small motel and hope for the best. We need to regroup. Both of us have nerve endings that are completely frayed.

I notice that Sands is not even trying to look sighted. He is letting me guide him. He lets me do the talking as we check in. There are no quips and no opinions. I get a room with twin beds. I don't think our relationship is ready for any assumptions at this point. We shower and change. It's been a long day.

I have a bad feeling when he decides that we should go to the seedy bar that is next to the motel.

"I want a shot of vodka and a beer. I don't care; any beer, any vodka." He takes a trembling drag as the bartender places an ashtray in front of him. Jesus fucking Christ. He's frightened. He's truly scared. He also seems defeated.

I sip slowly on my crappy light beer while he has several shots of vodka and chain smokes. He says nothing.

"Are you ok?" I know the answer already. But he's more descriptive and bitter than I expected.

"Are you shitting me?" "What kind of ridiculous fucking question is that?"

"I'm sorry. Actually, what I meant is 'Is there anything I can do?'"

"Got any spare eyeballs?". He went for the cheap pity shot. "Not only am I sitting here, waiting for the organization to off me, but I'm doing it blind. I have never been so pathetic and helpless in my entire life." He downs his shot and faces away from me. He's actually shaking. I know he's been through hell and that I may have provided some comfort, I didn't change that fact.

"I know. It sucks." I mean, it really does and no Pollyanna type of comment or trite exhortation is going to be helpful.

"What the hell do you know? Really? Do you realize how physical much pain I have had to deal with over the past six weeks? No. Pain is not the right word. Agony is closer, but still doesn't do justice to the experience of having a major body part removed and getting three gunshot wounds. Oh, and the pain isn't the bad part. The real nightmare is the fact that the darkness, or rather lack of light is suffocating and I cannot wake up. I am constantly disoriented. Everything is a goddamn surprise. I can't see anything coming." He grinds his cigarette into ashtray. I can tell that he wants to leave the bar. He's restless but doesn't know where he wants to go and can't really find his way around without a struggle. The entire outburst is incredibly saddening to me. First of all, it disturbs me that he didn't feel like he could vent until now. Secondly, have I been of no comfort? Was what I thought we had absolutely nothing?

"Let's take a walk." I cannot think of anything else to do at this point, We are both restless and on edge. If we stay in the bar we will drink entirely too much. It's unseasonably warm and both of us have been suffocating in the bar. We don't bother with coats.

I feel terrible. I'm not an idiot. Of course, he had to have suffered. I just didn't know how much. Our shoes sink a little into the muddy ground as we take a short cut to the sidewalk. Street lights make it feel as if it isn't night. Shit. They're not going to do much for Jeff. I want to hug him yet I don't want to be presumptuous. Perhaps it would be an intrusion. You would think that I would be physically comfortable after we, well, you know. The sudden outpouring of previously stifled emotions made me feel as if I didn't know him. I was on edge. What do I say?

"Is there anything I can do, Jeff?" "You have never asked for any sympathy or special favors but you know you can."

"I'm sorry about the mini-freakout I just exposed you to. I didn't mean to get all 'woe is me' on your ass." He lights another cigarette. I'm amazed at his rapid physical recovery and apparent health. Usually, smoking impedes the healing process and the more you smoke, the worse it is. He passed one pack per day while ago. "You do realize what being CIA entails. I have to do things that are pretty awful."

"Like what?" What am I, a masochist? Do I really want to know?

"Let's just say I have killed innocent people, and not only accidentally. And I have killed when it wasn't entirely necessary. It gets way too easy after a while." He pauses and inhales deeply as only a real smoker can. As he exhales, smoke streams out of his nostrils. "I've been greedy. I might not have even gotten into the trouble that I did get into if I hadn't planned to take the money and then blabbed to Ajedrez about it, like some proud idiot." He pauses. "God, she must have been laughing at me. It's like I had to pay for being an amoral dolt. The problem is, I don't know if I've changed. A few weeks of pain and an eyeball gouging do not a new man make. How's that for a new aphorism?" He actually smiles for a moment. "I don't think you know the half of what you've gotten yourself into." He sighs." You can run away screaming at any time. It might not be a bad idea. You've gotten me out of that hellhole of a country and nursed, or doctored, me back to a semblance of health. I can't really ask for more."

My stomach is churning. What sort of guy is he? Maybe I don't really know him. Am I standing next to some stranger? Then I last month has not been an illusion. It really happened and I really saw him in a miserable state and as things improved. He is still that man. And as I look at him, the light glaring off of his sunglasses and his hand combing through his scalp in a quick careless masculine movement I realize that I have to hug him I have to touch him and comfort him. As far as I'm concerned, there really is no other option.


	12. Chapter 12  Glad to See You

We sapped up each other's touch greedily as if we had needed the physical contact in order to survive. By dawn we had slept, at most, an hour or two.

Yet we were on the run and on a mission. Long luxurious sleep would be in our future, only if we succeeded. It certainly was not something we could afford now. The glow of sunrise through the ugly burnt orange drapes of our motel room was enough to tear me from my dream. What was I dreaming about a few minutes ago? The images were there but the language to think about them coherently and to describe them came only slowly. I remembered shock and fear. Well, actually, it was more like a constant foreboding anxiety that had hung over from waking life. There were bad guys. But who were they? Sands and I were running and he was leading me. He had his sunglasses on and the scar tissue could be seen at the right angle. Yet he took my hand and pulled me through alleys, into old buildings and up dark stairways. We ran and ran, with our guns drawn. Yet I couldn't quite get my finger around the trigger. At one point I realized That Alberto was with us. His uncle and cousins were behind him. We climbed up rickety and winding set of stairs, one floor after another. It seemed never ending. I asked Sands if he knew what he was doing and he laughed. Yet we still followed. We followed until, at the top floor, we came upon a room only partially lit by slanted rays of the sun. Out of a dark corner a man in a suit stepped forward and several others joined him. They all were armed and they all wore sunglasses. There were so many of them and they pointed their guns at us. Sands got to the top of the stairs first and didn't stop. Didn't he see them? Well, of course not. I yelled out to him but it was too late. He was with them and as the rest of us gathered at together he faced us, along with the other CIA agents and his gun was trained on me. He was laughing us and all the other suits joined in.

As I remembered the dream, I saw him lying there innocently sleeping and I was reassured... somewhat. I had always known that the was more than I knew behind the sunglasses and blindfold, behind the scars, and that I may not like what it was. This was the first time that I really felt it. And it frightened me. Despite our closeness. Despite the fact that, for the first time in my life, I found someone that I never wanted to be without. I was scared...scared of the unknown parts of him. And terrified of the situation we were in.

He was awake when I got out of the bathroom. "Well aren't you the bird who catches the worm this morning. I know it can't be much after seven." I realized that he was dependent on me for the time. He wore his watch, yet it was obviously useless to him. He was still trying to live in his old world. Adapting to the new one was another luxury that would have to wait. He was actually smiling. It was if last night took a weight off of his shoulders. He also seemed glad that I was there. I don't know how to describe it but hearing me coming out of bathroom wrapped in a towel was obviously a comfort to him. It was on his face and in his voice. It was in the little breath he took after he spoke.

And fear or no fear, I was damn glad that he was there.


	13. Chapter 13

Now, it was time to, at least, set up the big dance number. Soon the curtain would go up and it would be showtime. We had to gather our evidence and get through to the right people. Only, who were the right people? Who could he trust? I mean, really trust. They had to out everything on the line for him and they had to outnumber those who would have us snuffed out like a Bunsen burner that had started to burn through the test tube.

Sands and I pored over his cell phone contacts and tried to reconstruct his many connections at the agency as accurately as possible. They were on our trail and would likely find us soon. We had to be quick, efficient and accurate. This was no time to screw the pooch, so to speak. Jeff had to use every finely honed instinct and every milligram of his intuition and develop a list of those who could uncover machinations against us.

Problem is that it's all catching up with him. I'm still running on adrenaline but I still have my eyes. I haven't been forced to travel from one country to another, from one state to another, with partially healed gunshot wounds and while living in an entirely new world with a new disability. He makes me forget how much has happened to him, with his wit and bravado and with his almost preternatural coordination and spacial sense. I find myself smiling at him or making "eye contact" with the shiny mirrored surface of his sunglasses. And I've seen his injuries. I've seen the gaping chasms left by Barillo's own version of Dr Mengele. People who see us walking together have no idea that he couldn't see his own hand in front of his face.

Today, he just seems resigned and tired. It's not that he's giving up. It's just that I can tell that all of this is, well, wearing on him.

"Eat some toast at least. You know you're still healing. You need calories." He's just drinking black coffee and inhaling nicotine, again, as if it is life sustaining oxygen Typical.

He sighs. "Yes mom" and smiles. He takes one bite. I have a feeling that I am going to have to remind him again before each bite.

I sigh.

Together, we make a list. He is hesitant to give me the names of all of his CIA contacts. He knows, though, that we have to keep track of things and he is not in any shape to keep written records. One name that keeps on coming up is Megan Goldstein. Also, he mentions a Roger Patel. The question is how much can he rely on these people to help us instead of their own careers? It's a matter of life and death. The stomach dropping nausea has hit me as well. My toast is half eaten. And forget about the eggs, for either of us.

At least today is going to be largely a day of physical rest. We can sit, gather our information and make phone calls.

Until we get a call of our own.

An anonymous call to Jeff's CIA provided cell comes in. We don't answer. There is a voice mail. It is not a number from within the U.S. There is an accent. Jeff knows this voice but is having difficulty placing it. "I should know this and I think I would if the Day of the Dead hadn't scrambled my neurons." The voice simply tells us to get out of the town that we are staying in, and now. There is an urgency to it. There is frustration at not being able to talk to us in person. Yet, at the end of this message he says "Do not call this number. It will not be safe after I hang up. Good luck. Vaya con Dios." And that's it. Should we listen to the anonymous voice or not?

We start packing.


	14. Chapter 14

That voice. We are running again because of a cryptic, ok not that cryptic, voice mail.

We could go back north again, to Philly or New York. But they may be expecting that. We could go west or south. However, what they would least expect is that we run towards them. That's right, towards the CIA headquarters. We need to prove his innocence to the right people, those in the CIA who are not part of the coverup. Hopefully, they exist. Why not just cut to the chase? So to speak.

Yes, I'm worried. We are in a rental car (thank god for false ID.) Jeff is sitting next to me. His head is back, as if he were looking at the ceiling. He's not sleeping. The intermittent groans and sighs clue me in. He is exhausted but tense and in pain. He can't hide it anymore. He's also pale and ashen right now. Not a great look.

"Are you ok?"

"That wins the award for brainiac question of the day."

"What the hell do you mean?" Ok, a second ago I felt sorry for him. Now he's pissing me off.

"Figure it out. You're the doctor. I would have thought that you would realize that having three gunshot wounds and two extra holes in your head while running for your life, or worse, life in prison and not being able to see a goddamn thing the entire time would result in a touch of 'not okayness'" He has not lifted his head up yet. I'm sure he has a vicious headache. I'm going to give him a pass on the attitude thing, at least for now.

What can I do? I keep my eyes on the road and drive. "Have you taken anything for pain, yet?" I do want him to get to an American physician. I mean one who isn't me. Perhaps a neurologist and or pain management specialist for his headaches. He fishes two motrin out of a bottle in is jacket and swallows them without water. I swear the man is going to get a bleeding ulcer. Not only that, but I'm sure the motrin will barely touch the pain. I know he's afraid to take anything that will impair his reflexes or judgement right now and I couldn't convince him otherwise. He might be right. He shocks the hell out of me and puts his head on my shoulder in a vulnerable gesture that is so unlike him it almost brings tears to my eyes.

We finally pull up to Megan Goldstein's house. He worked with her for years but has not seen her for a while. Here's to hoping she's ugly as crap.

Of course she's almost pretty enough to be a supermodel. You know, one of those people who are so good looking that you cannot believe that they actually work and don't simply skate by on looks alone. She's dressed in jeans that are a little bit frumpy which is slightly comforting. She runs out to us. "Sands!" and gives him a big hug. "I thought you were dead. How are you feeling?" She smiles at me and introduces herself. Damn her. She's sweet and friendly. I think she immediately gets that there is something between us. I'm guiding him, but there is something extra in our touch and I'm glad it's obvious. I realize that the entire situation is awkward on so many levels. She surreptitiously glances at Sands. He told her what happened over the phone and I'm thinking that she's curious about his physical state. We sit down and she offers us coffee, which we welcome in our exhausted state. "Now, how the hell are we going to clear Sands." I decide to jump right in. He shifts in his seat and leans forward. We are both interested in any ideas that she may have at this point. We are also hoping that she'll tell us about anything she's heard from within the agency. She confirms our worst fears. They do want him gone. He's been thorn in their side for years. "You don't deal well with authority figures and direct orders, do you?" She almost sounds irritated but I'm sure I'm reading too much into her tone. It's not like I know her. "Art was really getting fed up with you and was hoping that you would quietly fade into the woodwork of Mexican chaos. He should have known you better." She laughs and puts her hand on his knee. He looks uncomfortable.


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning we make plans over breakfast burritos (ridiculous that these have the same moniker as the real burritos you find in Mexico.) Also, coffee again, and, for Sands, more cigarettes than any human should smoke in an hour. Despite, my admonitions and my concern regarding their effect on the healing process, they are, apparently, still like oxygen to him. The uncomfortable feeling has abated, slightly. We eat in the car. It's not an opportune time to show our faces and potentially reveal our whereabouts to The Company.

"It comes down to two things," Sands exhales his cloud of pollutants, takes another puff and, after a deep inhalation, reforms the white cloud above our heads. I wonder about lung cancer and second hand smoke. How many months or years of exposure does it take to significantly increase one's risk? "We need to obtain evidence of my innocence or evidence of a conspiracy against me."

Megan chimes in "I wouldn't flatter myself that much." Her brow is furrowed. "Are you really worth an entire 'conspiracy'? Would anyone in The Company actually expend that much effort?" She smiles. Yeah, great way to communicate with Sands. Do it with silent facial expressions. That will work. I roll my eyes, well hopefully more figuratively than literally.

Sands continues, ignoring her comments, "I think Art Kowalczk's office should contain the motherlode." He fidgets, "Um, Megan, you have to be the one to get them. You'll need a pretense and perhaps a distraction, of course. Do you know where he'd keep this sort of stuff?" He hesitates for a moment and emits another white plume. "You know, hacking his protected files, That's pretty much our best, if not only, option at this point." He leans forward and ashes on his breakfast burrito wrapper. I am hoping that they are not too flammable.

The night of rest seems to have made a difference. He doesn't appear to have a headache and is energetic and focused. He puts his hand on my knee or my shoulder periodically and smiles a decent amount. He is moving with amazing confidence, considering. This is not the same guy I found blinded and bleeding on the street.

There is some awkward tension. Aside from the fact that they were obviously more than friends at one point I have have a feeling that the facts of his injury and new disability are difficult for her to digest. She is overly solicitous and polite. She doesn't know when and if she should offer help. I try to step in by either taking the reins or saying things like "Yeah sure, we got it." Sands is irritated by all of this and finally cannot contain himself. We are looking at laptop screens and going over plans that we have on paper. "I'm friggin blind, ok? My eyes are not going to grow back like some lizard's tail. And it's not like it happened to you. So just get over it and deal." He leans forward in his seat and points to the slew of papers on the table. "Just tell me what's written down as we go along. That's all. Also, let me tell you a little secret. How do you know when I'll need help? Here's how you can figure it out, Columbo. I will ask for it. I can talk. With the way that I chatter I would think that you'd have picked up on that. "

I'm slowly getting a picture of the pre-Mexico Sands. On la Día de los Muertos he had a sort of transformation. But the real change started before that. It started with the cartels and the informants. It was the corruption that extended from police officers into the highest levels of government. It was the drugs and it was the weapons. But most of all, it was that murder was that rhythm of existence in Mexico included violent death and that this attitude had seeped into Sands. As a CIA agent he had learned to deal with life an death situations and had learned to kill. But CIA agents were not par for the course and murder was not accepted with a shrug. Mexico had turned I'm into a hardened survivor. My hope was that he would gradually lose the layer of protective callousness and indifference. I wanted him to stay strong. But I wanted life and death to have more meaning for him.

Why the hell was I pondering these deep thoughts at this time? Right now we had to concentrate on preventing death and Sands, and me from getting too chummy, if you know what I mean.


	16. Chapter 16 The

He stepped out of the shadows. At first he was just a silhouette: tall and strong. Then came the dark burning eyes that focused like a laser on Sands, then me, and then back to Sands. His face was framed by long layered almost black hair. He was wearing black boots, black jeans and a black shirt. Who the hell did he think he was, Sands? He didn't smile.

"I see you got my message. You are alive."

We had left for Roger Patel's house and we were walking into the foyer. "El, Long time no see! What the fuck are you doing in this cesspool of a town?"

"I came because I heard. I heard what happened to you and that you were in danger. An Agent Megan Goldstein called me."

Ok, now this is getting officially weird. Is this the mariachi guy Jeff told me about? And he gets a call from an associate of Jeff's. She calls a guy in Mexico to warn us instead of calling us herself. Something is rotten in Denmark.

"Is that how you greet people who travel from another country to help you?" El is only half serious because he knows that Sands is Sands. If he had expected hugs and tears that would lead me to think that he never had met Jeff at all.

Roger Patel has been watching these bigger than life "men in black" who have taken over his house. He ushers us into his basement. "I'm sorry about the decor in here." It's an unfinished basement with stacks of cardboard boxes used for storage. You can see pipes running along the wall and the floor is concrete with small shabby looking earth tone shag rugs scattered around. "It might be bugged upstairs."

The fear that I had earlier after I had been "shot" is coming back. We are obviously being watched. And there is only one explanation for that phone call."

"Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. It's a goddamn trap." Sands has his head down, thinking, while leaning against the wall with one hand. It's been half an hour since his last cigarette. So of course he lights up and runs his hand through his hair in that motion that seems specifically his."Megan: that traitorous c.." He holds himself back, but not for me. I know he is pretty uninhibited in his language when I'm around. There is something about El Mariachi that inspires respect and decency. It was obvious she had made El into an unwitting accomplice. His phone call had been a trap. He knew Megan could be a smooth liar and good at finding the right emotional strings to pull. He couldn't quite remember who that reminded him of. He chuckled. Then he remembered what she had done. She had arranged for them to be trapped at her house. It was only luck, and also a sense of unease and discomfort, that had them leave early. Sands had told her that they were going to hotel and that he would call her with the details when the were settled in. For some reason he had not wanted to let her know that they were going to Patel's house.

We all sat down and gathered ourselves. "First of all," Sands sighs and streams smoke out of his nose in twin energetic jet streams, "We cannot go through with our previous plan. We have to figure out how to get the information another way." "Roger, any flashes of brilliance?"

"Um, well," he suddenly brightens up. "I know people close to Kowalczk and I know him. I don't think this originated through him. Goldstein's gotta be working for someone else. Maybe Art can even help us. I don't think he has any inside knowledge regarding the entire Barillo connection or attempts to make an example of you guys for taking out such an important, well, stooge, of ours."

"Yeah. He was evil, but he was our evil puppet and did cooperate with U.S interests. The drug war was such a great cover for so many distasteful actions and assassinations throughout Mexico and the rest of the Americas. I don't have to remind you about Escobar in '93? He tried to rouse the people. It was too bad for him that his drug empire was the perfect excuse to get rid of him."

I took Jeff aside. "Listen I know I'm just a doctor. This international intrigue stuff hurts my brain. But how can you be certain that Art Kowalczk is on our side."

He puts his hands on my shoulders, and for all the world I would swear that I feel his laser sharp gaze make eye contact with me and lock in place. "You have an excellent point there. There is no way we can know. The problem is that we are running out of time and options. Just close your eyes and hold on tight" He grins at me and we find ourselves in an embrace.


	17. Chapter 17

Poor "The," he really was a fish out of water. The two agents spoke, well, spook speak and Sands, as usual, spoke in idioms and riddles. Then again, I wasn't exactly one of them so it was not a surprise that I was in the dark. I found myself chatting with El in the living room, finishing off my coffee while the spook stuff went on in the kitchen.

"You didn't know Sands before, did you?"

"No. I met him on the Dia de Los Muertos. He was trying to die on me in a deserted street. Alberto saved his life."

"Alberto?" El queried. I had forgotten that there were details that he was totally unaware of.

"He sold gum, 'chicle' and Jeff had bought an entire box a couple of days before. If Alberto had not been riding on that particular street at that particular moment I have a feeling that Jeff might not have gotten the help he needed. Of course, Jeff had to kill several people first. He was still Agent Sands. Killing the first cartel goon and Ajedrez was actually self defense, though. So I'll give him a break there. I'll never understand why he went into the town square for a shootout." I kept silent about the two million pesos. I knew that El had given his share to the people. Of course the money is what had kept Jeff going, sigh. He was still Sands now, but there was something different. I think he would hesitate, now, if he were in the same situation.

"He is a legend."

"Pardon me?"

"El Pistolero Ciego. The blind gunman. Some people think he is just a myth that disappeared as fast as he had appeared."

"Then again, some people would say the same about you." I smiled and looked down. I was calling him what he was. He smiled.

"I met him once, before that day. He wanted me to help with his plans. He knew the revolution was coming. He seemed different then."

After an hour or so, the two agents invited us back in to the room. Apparently, they had made some plans but were not ready to share them yet.

"So, El, good buddy. How have you been? Still saving your damsel in distress, dear Mexico?"

"We have had no further coups or attempted coups. We have some peace, now. Still, the cartels are cause pain and death. I do no know if that will ever change." El did not mince his words. "I hope you have not been shooting any more cooks" He looked over at Sands who smiled.

"Why, El, I thought that was going to remain our little secret. You do realize that my idea of 'balance' and my need to kill the cook was my way of getting the upper hand, don't you? I mean, here you are, a myth and a legend and I was just a stupid American asking for your help. I had to make you realize that I was serious, and a little dangerous. I pretty much ad libbed the entire speech about balance. Of course, I knew I had to follow through once I said that I would shoot the cook. I couldn't risk you finding out and recognizing me for the poser that I was." He chuckled. He was normally not so honest and self deprecating. The 'Mexico' Sands was melting away. "I do love Puerco Pibil, though. Probably the only thing I miss about that damned hellhole of a country, no offense meant, of course, El."

El looked as if he was pretty much determined to ignore any provocation. I had a sick feeling in my stomach. It was not just that this man I was, well, getting darn used to, had been someone who murdered merely to prove a point. It was the easy way in which confessed to it. Now he was different than the man I was hearing about, though, and his 'confession' was part of it. The old Sands would never have voluntarily brought up the topic unless he was trying to get El off balance. I walked away. "Well that's an excellent way for me to find out that you are a robotic killing machine, Jeff. Glad you got that off of your chest." I found myself saying as I left. I realized that I was jealous of their shared history and I felt entirely out of the loop.

Later that night, he beckoned me over to a corner of the couch as he sat in a chair facing it. He was sitting backwards on the chair and had his arms wrapped the back of it. His legs straddled the seat. He leaned over to me. "So," he took a breath. "There is a lot that went on in Mexico that you know about. There is also a lot that you don't know about. Obviously, I am not trying to hide anything from you. I mean, you'd have to be blind not to see what kind of person I am. Maybe I should get a tattoo? 'Bad news. Stay away.'"

Ok, ok, I couldn't do it anymore. I was breaking out in a stupid smile that I was glad he couldn't see. How the hell does he get my heart to melt so easily?

Fuck.


	18. Chapter 18 The Right Thing

Art Kowalczk put the hard copy of the file down on his desk with a frustrated slap. His mind was going in circles. This was not a good feeling. The last time that he felt this way, the had almost gotten killed for uncovering a conspiracy. Luckily, the good guys won and now he was director of the department. Perhaps he should trust his intuition.

He knew Sands. Perhaps better than Sands realized. Something about the idea didn't sit right with him. Sands was unorthodox. In Mexico, he had become a little trigger happy and, well, feral, if you will. He had become dangerous, untrustworthy and beholden to no one but himself. This, Kowalcyk had begun to understand through his many phone conversations with Sands during his years in Cuilican. But that was just it. Sands wasn't one to work for a cartel. It just didn't seem plausible. He spun it back and forth and upside-down and inside out. Still, the scenario of betrayal of did not fit with the man he had talked with so many times throughout the changes in Mexico and up until the attempted coup. Sands was not a wide eyed naive patriot who believed that his own country could do no wrong. Sands was not a traitor either. To work with the cartel, against US interests he would have had to have been. In addition, the calls that he received from Sands near the end, near Los Dios de Los Muertos, were disconcerting, to put it mildly. It was obvious that his backup was not arriving and that he had been betrayed, left twisting in the hot, dusty Mexican wind. He was sleeping with Barillo's daughter. He had pretty much admitted that. However, Ximena "Ajedrez" Barillo turned out to be a mole in the AFN, a position that also offered her cover. Sands was deceptive and cunning. However, Kowalczk really had been under the impression that he had not known this.

And where was he now? He was rumored to be near death at one point but had survived. There were even stories. Stories that included bizarre accounts of a gunman dressed in black who managed to kill several cartel goons despite having had his eyes drilled out. This was too surreal to imagine and was likely inaccurate or exaggerated information. Although he did remember that Guevera, Barillo's "doctor," had gouged out the eyes of enemy spies on more than one occasion. It was sort of his signature.

If only he could find Sands, wherever he was and whatever condition he was in. Sands was a survivor. He was likely hiding. The director sighed. If he was hiding, he had good reason. He was pretty much a dead man, as far as the agency was concerned. Art Kowalcyk had seen this before. Agents would take the fall and end up in jail or worse in order to cover up distasteful activity that had actually been initiated by the company itself. He never got used to it. It left him slightly nauseated and more than slightly angry. His hands were usually tied in these situations, at least if he wanted to keep his position, they were. Would he risk his career and more to protect an agent who was selfish somewhat amoral and greedy? Incredibly, defying all logic, his innards told him the answer and that answer was yes. He was tired, tired of sucking up more guilt and disgust for the agency's covert activities. He just couldn't do it any more.

He was going to figure this out


	19. Chapter 19

Patel had worked with Megan Goldstein before. He knew who she reported to and where her loyalties lay. He brought us into the main living room area again,

"We cannot stay here. Megan is not stupid. She will have some goons over here within a day or two to check things out."

"Those 'things' mainly being us. Roger's right. It's like that ad for bladder medication. We gotta go...like, now." Sands had his feet, boots and all, on the coffee table and was leaning back on the sofa. His head was back, resting on the sofa, as if he were looking up at the skylight. The sunbeams highlighted the smoke that he blew into a trail that was intermittently highlighted by the radiance. They also reflected off of his Ray Bans. The effect was almost magical, softening his perfect, but sharp, features into an almost noble or angelic portrait. All of this, and he likely had no idea that the skylight was even there. I sat down at what felt like the left hand of god and he put his arm around me. The the gesture demonstrated possession and affection at the same time. I put my head on his shoulder and enjoyed our last moments of relaxation.

Megan Goldstein couldn't sleep. Over the past year or two, she had helped the CIA with its less popular and, coincidentally, covert actions. She was loyal to the company. It was a that loyalty far exceeded her commitment to ideas such as human rights and it earned her promotions and power. It was also the right thing to do, enforcing order, keeping the balance. Without the drug war there would be no sense of purpose. There would be a chaos far different than the cartel skirmishes and killings that were so common as to be part of the rhythm of daily life. At least that's what she told herself. The president of Mexico was a threat to the status quo. Marquez was supposed to take care of him. That's what Barillo was paying him to do. When word got to the U.S that Sands was actually going to interfere with the coup for personal gain she was told to stop him and make certain that he didn't survive to talk about it And it almost worked. Both Barillo papa and Barillo daughter had been loyal to U.S. interests in Mexico and South America. It was Ajedrez who informed her of Sand's plans. It was Ajedrez who decided that Sands would have a doctor's appointment; so much better than having him dispatched with quickly. Guevera was supposed to have ended it, but he was having too much fun with his eyeless victim. Sending him out to flounder on the streets before being executed was just so much more entertaining.

'Damn you, Guevera. You let him slip away.' If she had known the details of Guevera's plans, she would not have approved. She knew Sands better than almost anyone and you didn't give him any wiggle room or he would use it. (Although she was still trying to understand how the hell Sands could have shot the guy who was supposed to finish the hit, how he could have shot him in the middle of his forehead and within minutes of his little bilateral 'eye- ectomy.') Now the hit would have to be carried out on U.S. soil and a that damn little doctor friend of his would have go as well. What was wrong with her? Who would save a total stranger and then spend weeks caring for him? It was all so messy. 'Sigh' at least it would be over soon and those loose ends would be tied up: both of them.


	20. Chapter 20

A new day, a different rental car and a new motel. Since I was the least recognizable, I would rent the car and deal with the clerk at the motel. The rest of the motley crew would enter the back way or at an off time. We would rent two rooms and no more. Large groups stood out.

As we reached our first beautiful cockroach infested place of accommodation Sands seemed to enjoy distracting me from the road. His fingers touched my thigh through my jeans in an unpredictable rhythm that was hard to ignore. "No way in hell am I sharing a room with restless Mr Guitar Man. I bet he talks in his sleep. Hell, he might try some funny stuff. Who knows with these Mariachi types? I've heard the stories." Sands was joking...sort of. El glared at him but ignored the obvious teasing, even though it was difficult to impress upon a blind man that you were silently sulking in anger while continuing to keep up the "silent" part of things. He shifted uncomfortably in his jeans and plain cotton shirt like a fish out of water or at least like fish on an uncomfortable new environment. He had really taken his "do-gooder" philosophy a little far this time. How did he always get dragged into these situations? And this time he had to deal with Sands..., again.

Agent Patel was on his laptop. Apparently, he was able to hack through security. He knew there was a chance of being tracked but lives were at stake. Sands had never been best buddies with him, but he had looked up to Sands. This guy manipulated manipulators and out conspiracied conspiracies., not to mention, he was a crack shot (and a crack-pot on occasion, but we won't go into that.) Now he was permanently disabled and still, he carried on. He was fighting for his life against an agency that he had worked for for years. You gotta love the company. Agents were secondary to missions and everyone knew that but it didn't make it easier. Of course, Sands did everything with wit and style and that had not changed. He was fighting for survival and dealing with a new disability yet he was still flirting and obviously enjoying the company of the woman who had rescued him. What a role model. Patel forced himself to concentrate on his task. What records were available from October and November regarding Sand's mission in Cuilican and had they been doctored? Eventually he was able to get into the system and familiarize himself with it. He began to navigate through it. It appeared that most of the records supported the company's claim that Sands had joined the dark side and was working with Barillo and either gave the agency false information or didn't check in with his superiors at all. Then he began to notice the inconsistencies. One file had Sands calling in on November first. Another did not. One documented a phone call in which Sands called for backup. Another did not. The carefully woven story of a rogue and traitorous agent began to fray. He needed to get into the phone company records. The phone bill. Yes. That was probably the most reliable source. "Hey, Sands! Could you maybe stop cuddling with your girlfriend for a nanosecond and give me a hand? What user name and password would the company use to get into your cell phone bill?

"You know, you're all work and no play, Patel." He sighed and straightened up. "I doubt the company paid cellphone charges like a private citizen would. The online account records were never accessed, most likely."

"Beautiful". Patel smiled and swiveled three sixty in his chair. "You realize, all we need to do is to set up an account. If we figure out the name that the account is under we are golden. Well, what do you know. It friggin worked! AT&T keeps the agency's cell phone accounts under the name 'The Company.' Hilarious." He printed out Sand's account while we all cracked up at the ridiculous nature of the way the agency often functioned.

Sands straightened up again and listened. At the same time, El strode into the room. "We are being surrounded. Grab your weapons"

Really, I didn't know how much more my nerves could take. My heart was beating up in my throat again. I wanted this to be over in the worst way. Well, you know what I mean. The worst way is the one way I don't want it to turn out. I'm kind of attached to that "being alive"sort of thing.


	21. Chapter 21

When you are surrounded and outnumbered you have a choice: either surrender or fight your way through your enemy. Surrendering is usually the sensible decision. It is more likely to leave you alive and breathing, to fight another day.

So we fought our way through.

If the CIA could be said to have goons, these were them. The number of brain cells owned by the ten men surrounding us was outweighed by muscle tissue, ten to one. Or so it seemed.

Still, I wished Patel had a panic room hidden below his house somewhere.

He did not.

The gun play was quick and heartless. In real life, what seems like an hour is actually a few minutes, at most. Time is dilated in order to leave room for more action and more reaction. El quickly dispatched several of the pinheads. They didn't go down easily; too much mass, but they eventually succumbed if you imbedded enough lead into them. Roger also seemed to be a good shot.

I surprised myself. Suddenly, the gun that Sands had given me was in my hands and I was firing it. At first there was no control. The kick of the gun threw me off balance. I adjusted and found myself causing one of the henchmen to fall. Fuck. Was I sickened more than exhilarated? Or visa versa? I don't know. But both feelings hit me at once, along with the ongoing panic that accompanied this entire nightmare. Sands was orienting himself. We both stood on either side of a window. He was hesitant to move. The commotion of sounds was likely too much to digest and make sense of. I was realizing that he really was blind. It wasn't some affectation or a joke. It's not like he could surreptitiously peak out from under the blindfold for a second. I put my hand on his shoulder and we made our way to the back of the house. El and Roger started to blast a path for us and we ran for it. We had parked a car in back just for this sort of occasion. I didn't get it then. Now it was our only way of getting out of this mess. I jumped into the drivers seat. Sands did not get in yet. He ducked behind the car and waited.

Then it happened.

Roger was blasting away in a 360 degree circle. Yet, seemingly out of nowhere, one of the goons materialized and shot. It happened in a split second and Roger was down. I couldn't see exactly where he was shot but El was dragging him to the car and the perpetrator raised his gun again. And then quickly fell with a bullet imbedded in his temporal lobe. Sands kept his still smoking gun out and hopped into the passenger seat. I opened the door for El and Roger and we sped off.

Roger was trying to talk. Sands was practically kneeling in his seat facing the back and talking to Roger. "You're going to be fine, fucker. You still have to give me payback for that date I ruined for you with my stupid prank. Come on." Roger smiled a bit and said "It's ok." His breathing started to become erratic and he was unconscious now. Soon El was trying do CPR in the cramped back seat. Sands was yelling. "You can't do this, dammit. You can't." There was a strained sort of desperation in his voice. He could hear El trying to position himself in order to perform chest compressions. He leaned in between the two front seats and reached in back. His angle was actually better than El's. He was on his knees. He started to do compressions. I knew he must have felt the warn wetness of Roger's blood seeping through the chest wound. El and Sands switched off for a desperate half hour. The continued long after it was obvious that Roger was gone. Sands emitted half of a strangled sob and remained slumped over the divider between our seats with his head in his hands.

I didn't know where we were going but I kept driving.


	22. Chapter 22

Someone find the remote control and rewind a bit, please...

I am not used to this. Sudden violent death. It was bad enough to see Jeff injured so irrevocably. This just sucked the wind out of everyone. I know. I know. This is much worse for people who were close to Roger. That's why I am worried about Jeff. He has had way too much loss in the past month or two. Yeah yeah, sure, Jeff you are CIA. You have seen death. You eat death for breakfast. I get it. Except it's not exactly true. I don't think that the sudden death of a friend is something you can get used to. It doesn't help when you are the one who has to break the news to the family.

So it makes sense that Sands is quiet and seems distracted. At first, he seemed to push me away. After a day or two of persistence, on my part, he allows himself to grieve a little bit. Don't get me wrong, its not as if he breaks down and opens up verbally. But allows himself to seek solace in touch.

And I'm not complaining.

Seriously, though, we are comforting each other. I am not having an easy time with this "running for our lives" thing. For Jeff this is part of his job, although usually it's not his own employer that he is running from. For El, this is life. He has lived like this since getting pulled into the cartel violence years ago. The story is that it started with a case of mistaken identity and lead to the death of his girlfriend and an injury to his fretting hand. Since then he has faced loss on a regular basis. It's almost as if he had angered some petty and vengeful gods.

The silence is painful. Yet, what the hell can I say to fill the void? Anything I say will likely be trite and meaningless. It will echo a bit and then fall into the void. We can't go to the funeral for obvious reasons, unless we have a death wish. We change cars and hotels on a regular basis again using false ID and we head towards nowhereville somewhere near appalachia. Our plan is to bide our time until things quiet down and then get back to the business of finding and outing whoever set Sands up. Without Roger it will be more difficult. El and I have willingly tied our fate to Sands and the silence does speak. I think it's saying, "You know you're fucked, right?"

I'm still worried about Jeff. Not only is he grieving, not only is he still recovering, physically but he is still adjusting to his new life. All of this, while on the run. It's too damn much and I don't know if we're going to make it.

I'm contemplating all of this after a crappy meal and a cup of coffee that I had too late in the day. Out of sheer laziness and fatigue we have collapsed onto the petri dish that is the bedspread in the cheap generic motel. I remember that they only wash the sheets and I gently push Sands to one side while I pull down the bedspread. He is not pleased. "What the fuck?" is the first thing out of his mouth

"Ssshhh," I say softly, "It's ok. I'm just putting us under the blankets."

He mumbles a grudging assent and lets me get us situated. I take off his sunglasses. Still, I have to take a deep breath before I look him straight in the face into his freshly healed wounds. I kiss his forehead and lay down next to him and he puts his arm around me. We'll settle for small comforts for now.


	23. Chapter 23

Art Kowalczk didn't give up without a fight. The information didn't come easily and it came in drips and drabs. He scoured local Mexican papers from late October and early November. He searched for people who were there at the time and may have witnessed something, anything. Many of the names were dead ends.

Alfonso Jimenez was different. Kowalczk found contact information and was actually able to call him. Jimenez had been employed at the cantina in which Sands grilled his informants and where he had an unfortunate encounter with a coffee spilling waitress and a one eyed (oh, the irony...if the stories were true) paid the ultimate price for trusting Sands to be reasonable. Lilia Fernandez, though, had survived. Kowalczk's Spanish, to put it kindly, was rusty and Lilia Fernandez did not speak English. Fortunately, Jimenez was able to translate. Using his private cell line, Kowalczk was able to carry out clumsy and somewhat painstaking conversations. His hunch that Sands had succumbed to the treachery of Barillo's daughter was confirmed. Several people testified to the fact that Sands had been planning have Barillo killed. It is unlikely that he knew Ajedrez was Barillo's daughter. He had been spying on Barillo through an FBI agent (retired FBI, excuse me.) Barillo did not take kindly to this and it was only through a lucky encounter with a chihuahua owning American fugitive named Billy Chambers that Jorge Ramirez was able to escape the worst consequences of his actions. Sands was not so lucky. There were actual witnesses who had seen a bloody American with long black hair and dark glasses wearing black. Come on, who else would that be? A young boy was guiding him. This was getting weirder and weirder. There were people who said that Sands had hired a ?Mariachi? (what? Did he need music? No. Apparently this guy was legendary fighter and foe of the cartels) to off a General Emiliano Marquez who had been hired to lead the coup. Sands did not appear to pick sides. This is the man Kowalczk knew. He recorded all calls and took extensive notes. Everything had to be documented. He made several copies of the recordings and the notes and gave them to trusted friends. He did not have a good feeling about this and he wasn't about to let his efforts go waste. The last person who received a copy of his notes was a close associate of Patel's.

It was no surprise to him when he began to choke while drinking a glass of wine in one of his favorite Italian places. He knew the effects of cyanide. He did what he did because he was sick of the agency getting away with murder lies and coverups and he hadn't expected to survive. His wife watched as he turned blue and the paramedics could do nothing.


	24. Chapter 24

It was a pain because I had to use the public courtesy computer that the hotel happened to have. Many of the hotels/motels didn't have one. Some had one that was not online. When we did find one and a little bit of privacy, I must have spent more than two hours scouring the entire internet. I looked under as many search terms as I could for information that would exonerate Sands and help us get put of our teensy weensy little bind. Results? Bupkis, nada, rien, zippo. I found some general summaries of the events on Los Dios De Los Muertes but no more.

Jeff knew I was getting frustrated. Perhaps when I called him from the phone in the computer room and said "oh, fuck" for the tenth time, it was a clue.

"Get yourself up here. You are obviously not on the right track. You need to decompress. Also, I am getting incredibly bored here. Bad things happen when I'm bored and I cannot be responsible for any havoc that I wreak if you don't provide me with some sort of entertainment. The tv probably gets a couple hundred stations but nothing worth watching. Well, you know what I mean. Actually, it's more difficult to find something good on if you can't see it."

"Ok, ok. It's pretty obvious that you are losing it up there. I'll be up in a couple of minutes."

"Well, you better because I have some ideas regarding our, um, entertainment."

"I'm sure you do.". I think he could hear my smile. I could hear his.

Still, I couldn't stop immediately. You know, I had a case of the "Just one more website" itis. Sands had given me a list of some coworkers and superiors that might be helpful and I had searched all of their names, with and without other terms. No luck. I started to think of the danger we were in. Ok, I admit, I thought of that often. At the risk of becoming repetitive, I am going to reiterate my previous excuse which involves something about all of this crap being new to me. Danger was not my middle name. Until I met Sands, I didn't know anyone who even rubbed elbows with intrigue or danger. And it wasn't as wonderful and cool as it appears to be. Trust me.

I realized, then, that anyone who would gather or post information on Sands and Los Dios de Los Muertes would also be in danger. Being congenitally morbid, I searched names and added the term death or dead.

Bingo. Kowalcyk was a former boss of Sands. He was someone Sands actually had some trust in. He had posted detailed interviews with eyewitnesses and painted a convincing, I think, picture of a guy who tried to control things but had no traitorous intentions and ended up getting the shaft, big time. Of course, if Kowalcyk did post this and meant for it to be found using the search terms including his name and dead it meant that he expected that it was possible that this would be searched for after his death. He expected that he might be putting his life at risk. He might even be dead.

An hour later I entered the room quietly. The main light was on but Jeff was obviously breathing the slow heavy breaths of sleep. He was not quite snoring. As I shuffled around in a pathetic attempt to be quiet I heard him sigh. "You know, this is not a China shop and you are not a bull. I think you woke the entire floor up."

"Sorry"

"I'm assuming you just lost track of time."

"Well actually. I hit the jackpot. I printed it out. I can go over it with you now, or in the morning."

"Now" He propped himself up and ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to get all the strands out of his face.

I sat down and started reading to him. It was dawn before either of us realized how many hours had passed.


	25. Chapter 25

It was far too early when we heard the familiar Spanish voice at our door followed by some quick raps. "You are still asleep?"

"Go the fuck away, El. What time is it?"

I'm squinting at the digital clock on his side of the bed. "I think it's already ten."

"My Christ, how can it be morning already? I shouldn't feel this bad unless I've had a lot more tequila. We stayed up obscenely late and we didn't even have fun. Well, maybe a little" He stroked my hair, further convincing me that getting out of bed was going to take more willpower than I might have.

"Arghh. Ok, I'll get up, but only if you let me get a huge thingy of coffee from room service."

"Sounds good to me" He smiled. He was already smoking and sitting up. His elbow rested on his bent knee and he gave the back of his scalp a quick scratch with the same hand which also held his cigarette.

Soon we were dressed and the three of us were sitting around the small tacky faux wood table drinking coffee and picking at a continental breakfast. For El's benefit, I summarized the revelations from the night before.

El appeared genuinely relieved. What had started as an obligation to a former employer had evolved into concern about friends whose lives were in danger. Sands had described El as a stand up guy with the morals of a boy scout and he wasn't far off. Of course, when had he ever been wrong about someone? Well, ok, you know, not counting the soulless cartel daughter and she-devil who was in a better place now. And by "better place" I mean it's better for us that she's gone.

Speaking of soulless she- devils, it was becoming disturbingly obvious that Ms Goldstein was not on the up and up. The details of her story did not mesh. She had tried to use El to bring us together and trap us. It worked in a way. Roger's fate was a testament to that. But the bitch was not going to have it all her way. His death was not going to be in vain. We were determined. And now we had a start. We had some evidence were following the trail; a trail that was still warm. And the glass was half full for the first time since the shootout at Patel's house.

The more we dug, the more complex the situation grew. And we heard nothing of Art Kowalczk. Nada. Nichts, rien. That is until we searched the obituaries. Sands almost choked on his own saliva when I read it to him. No friggin autopsy? Sure, it was a heart attack. A CIA official is investigating a cover up/frame up. He is only in his fifties. He doesn't smoke and is not overweight. And he keels over while eating food that was made by people he didn't know. It would have been funny if it weren't ...well, okay, it wasn't funny. It was pathetic. We had to find out who Megan was working with and expose them. ASAP.

Sands looked as if he were becoming ill.

"Are you ok?"

"Well, actually, no." Of course, he wasn't going to pass up a "snideness" opportunity.

"Do I have to wring it out of you?"

"Perhaps". He looked lost in thought..and slightly terrified. The terrified thing? That was a first. I had seen him in danger and in the dark. I had seen him betrayed, knowing that a CIA hit was on him. Never did he look so sickened and abjectly horrified. It was as he was seeing Beelzebub himself from behind the dark shades. He pronounced it slowly and almost gutturally. "Guinness.".

I tried to laugh and blow off his terror with some sort of joke. I couldn't do it. It was as if my vocal cords were refusing to cooperate. "Nope can't do it. Tell the brain that we won't be party to this pathetic false levity." I had no idea who or what Sands was talking about but my stomach was joining in "Yep, we in the GI tract are pretty sick, ha, over this as well. Here, have some overwhelming nausea. You'll thank us later."

So it was a bit of a surprise when it was Sands who quickly fumbled his way over to the bathroom before I heard retching.


	26. Chapter 26

They first met at Camp Peary. They were part of a small elite group that trained together. Some of the training was originally part of a program that was terminated after Watergate. So, in essence "officially" they had not gone through hell together. They had not undergone interrogation training and mock executions. They had not seen fellow trainees get sick and nearly die due to poisoning.

Except they had. And they put their lives in each others hands. It was all about trust and this elite team was built on it. The hell that they went through in training made certain of it. This is why it was particularly disconcerting, no, deeply disturbing, no, horrifying when he finally realized the truth about Guinness. Yeah, like the stout beer. He would always mention that when anyone asked for the spelling of his name. He had a great sense of humor and a quick smile. Sands hadn't been attracted to men before and he certainly wasn't going to start now. Except he did.

Their relationship lasted several months..long enough for a bond to form, long enough to create faith that was even deeper than the trust that already linked them together. They had been with the same woman and started trading war/relationship stories. The talk got deeper and Sands experienced feelings that he never knew he could have for a man.

Someone had cheated. Someone had received copies of the answer sheets ahead of time. This was not easy to do. However, if you had the right connections and they were willing to risk all for you, it could happen. And she did. She trusted him when he talked of marriage and kids in their future. She trusted him when he said she was the only one. She assumed he was not with any other women..or men. In fact he cheated on her with both. In fact, the promises and lies all fell apart when the brown stuff hit the fan. Not before, however, he had gotten her to lie for him. And it was the perfect frame. When studying together, he had given him enough hints and information about the test, without actually revealing that he had the answer key. Naturally, they both did extraordinarily well. It was only because she forgot to destroy all of the copies that they were caught.

Guinness had cheated. Sands paid. He paid so big that he was still resurrecting his career when he was sent to the crap hole that was the middle of the Mexican drug cartel struggles.

We were up late. El and Sands were indulging in more beer and tequila than was probably wise. I got nauseated just watching them. I didn't care about sleep and I decided that nursing a pot of coffee was preferable to getting a hangover migraine. I think Jeff needed to dull the horror and fear that was beginning to gnaw at him and El was not going to let him become inebriated all by his lonesome, not that he had any strong Fideo tendencies but there was a time and place.

Jeff let the story unfold, appearing to stare into his glass as he described betrayal and anger. It wasn't something you get over. More so because he was still suffering the consequences. In fact, you might say that he wouldn't be missing certain body parts if he hadn't had his career derailed and if he hadn't had that opportunity to meet Miss "Chess" and her lovely father.. and their 'doctor' with his unique gadgets and affinity for ironic punishment.

Now, Sands was certain that Guinness was the one who had worked with Goldstein. In fact, he knew that they were in a relationship. He had no proof, but he suspected that letting him blindly flap in the wind had been a calculated career move. Let Sands take the heat for working with Barillo. Let Sands take the physical consequences and then kill him before he can tell anyone.

Beautiful.


	27. Chapter 27

In a way, it was good that we had the names. It hurt Sands who, despite his posturing, actually cared about his work and the people he worked with. Apparently, some of them thought of him as human detritus or a used wash cloth easily tossed aside along with all the dirt and grime. But now that we knew who it was we had a chance.

I looked at El, who had voluntarily gone to a foreign country, alone, and had done so for a man who had dragged him into this mess at gunpoint (multiple gunpoints if what I heard was accurate.) he still radiated otherworldly pain and weariness. Yet, something about coming to the U.S. had given him a slight edge of playfulness and lightness of spirit. He still wore the albatross, but it had become somewhat lighter and less of a burden,

If El was weary Sands should have been in a coma. He had been through a garbage disposal and come out the other side in one piece, mostly. I gazed at him. He knew when I was staring, but I didn't care. He had physical poise from years of being sighted and it was often hard to tell that he couldn't see a thing, at least with the glasses on. But there were times when you could tell. He hadn't slept and I don't think he had the energy to fuel any sort of illusions.

I felt like I had been through someone else's escapade. I had survived gunfire and violence. I had fallen in love with someone in a matter of days. Yes, I admitted it to myself. Sands, despite of or perhaps because of, his ordeal, had clawed at something buried in me and he wasn't letting go. It was getting at the "Ok, I can wake up now" stage of things, though. I didn't think I could go on running, fueled on the four food groups of caffeine, sugar, nicotine and adrenaline. (Yes, I had started to smoke. The whole "medical school" thing was apparently not enough to dissuade me. But I could quit anytime I wanted to. I swear.)

So the three remaining members of our motley team were the underdogs. We were unlikely and inconvenient survivors. But likely not for long. The CIA had resources that we could not hope to match in any way shape or form.

So it was no surprise when they finally caught up with us. I was on my way back to the elevators with a couple of packs of cigarettes when I heard her voice. It was annoying before and it was grating on my nerves now: Megan goddam Goldstein. I got my ass around the corner and hidden from view as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. She was at the front desk. "Have you seen these people? They are fugitives and it is extremely important that you tell me if you do know them."

"Sorry maam. I don't recognize the faces or the names."

She started to put the photos away.

"Let me see." The bartender, oh crap. "They were here not too long ago. The names aren't familiar but you don't forget an unusual group like that."

"What do you mean?" Goldstein sounded almost amused.

"Well, there was a guy with a strong Spanish-type accent and the other guy wore dark glasses. They both had long hair. The woman always stayed near the guy with the glasses. It was obvious that they were, um, together but it was still kind of weird, like she was protecting or guiding him. Crap, that's probably what it was. He was blind. I can't believe I didn't realize that until now. At least that's what it seemed like."

I could have sworn that your heart was not supposed to be in your throat. At least that's what I learned anatomy lab.

"Bingo!" I'm sure that devil woman was smiling like the cat that ate the canar


	28. Chapter 28

She found us. I shouldn't be surprised. It was only a matter of time. I ran up to our room on the fifth floor and started frantically banging on the door.

"Hold your friggin ponies. I'm coming. Is that you?"

"Let me in, for god's sake. They're here!"

"Okay okay" The lock clicked open and I was confronted by a Sands whose facial expression seemed to convey a cross between WTF and adrenaline fueled efficiency. The obligatory European cigarette was hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Deep cleansing breaths, sweetheart. Freaking out is not going to help anyone. Trust me. I know." He sighed and put his arm around me as he pulled me into the room, "Now get your pretty ass in here."

We sat on the edge of the bed.

"Now who did you see?"

"You know; Megan and a guy. I'm guessing it's that Guinness. They know we're here. The bartender pretty much told them. It's only a matter of time before they find our room."

"Yeah, let's get El in here." He was taking deeper drags on his cigarette and becoming more fidgety. He started pacing between the bed and the window.

"How do we prove you innocent?" El was nervous too. Only his demeanor hid it better.

Sands scratched the back of his head with the same hand that held his, still burning, cigarette. He was still walking, from the bed to the window and back, in an almost figure eight pattern. "Damn, we don't have time to get recording equipment. I'm sure I can annoy some sort of confession out of at least one of them." His free hand found the windowsill and he leaned on it and sighed. "Any brilliant or not so brilliant ideas that either of you can come up with would be welcome about now. It's not like we have a bunch of time. If we don't come up with something, we'll have to run for it...again. I'm thinking that's beginning to get a bit old, don't you?" He wasn't even facing us. I would have sworn that he was staring out into beautiful parking lot view that we had.

"Shit! I have one of those old pocket tape recorders in my bag. I brought it for dictating medical notes. I have batteries and a tape already in it." Then I thought about it. "It would be obviously easy to find if you do a pat down. They won't check us, I hope."

"It's not exactly like we have a ton of options here. El? What do you think?"

"Fine. But we stay ready to fight. Are you both armed?" He looked at me, specifically.

"Okay okay. Jeff, what do we have? He was already grabbing a pistol from his stash." He faced me. "This is the one you used before. Savvy?" As he grinned widely, his cigarette seemed to stay in his mouth by force of will.

"Yes. I don't know how quick on the draw I'll be, but I know how to fire it."

I gave Jeff the tape recorder and familiarized him with the controls as he figuratively rolled his eyes. "I am familiar with tape recorders, you know." The unspoken refusal to accept any more help than he absolutely needed was implicit in his words.

What the three of us needed were steel nerves and a little luck


	29. Chapter 29

Ok, a lot of luck... Is what we need at this point. I wasn't fooling myself. These were pros that we were dealing with. Sure, I had some pretty good guys on my side but one of them had been to physical and mental hell and was on his way back, but not there yet. The other was out of his element. And, of course, the authorities do not take well to shootouts and particularly shootouts that involve innocent victims (so picky, go figure) and eyelessness is not a definite "get out of jail free"card. We have to be careful.

It turns out that we had about fifteen minutes to solidify our plan. El and Jeff are going to hide at the other end of the hall way and I am going to be the bait, so to speak. Our dear Megan knocks at the door. She is alone. Apparently, Guinness and their backup men are waiting in the wings. They don't want to show all their cards immediately. This is the first time I've been in real danger with Sands. I fiddle with the pearl bracelet that he bought for me in Mexico when he was barely able to walk.

"Well, hello, dear, what can I do you for?" I am surprised that I have any sense of humor at this point.

"Where are they?"

"What? No how have you been or long time no see? Why so grouchy, Megan?"

"Get your hands up where I can see them." She pretty much kicks me into the wall with her hard boots. "Do you want to tell me where they are or do you want me to start target practice?"

Ok, this is it. Time to earn my Oscar. "Okay, okay.. I'm sorry. I'll cooperate with whatever you want. Please don't shoot me." The quiver in my voice is not all acting. I try to look like I am about to cry. The method acting technique is easy. I just have to think about my actual situation at this point. "I just don't know where they went. They went off to talk somewhere. I guess a bar or something. I don't know. I swear!" At the last word my voice cracks and I let the tears flow.

"Come on," She leads me on with the gun. I know the guys are hiding somewhere around here. Please let them see where we are going.

Crap! Apparently, Megan, Guinness and their henchmen had the same idea. I'm bait alright. She takes me down the back stairs and into a dark hummer. We drive away, but not before we get several witnesses. The trail of breadcrumbs will lead to me..or rather, to armed henchmen. It's only a few minutes later that we pull into a lot next to what looks like an huge abandoned store: kind of like an empty WallMart. I'm not even worthy of handcuffs or some rope. Apparently, I'm seen as pretty harmless. The only problem is that it's true. I couldn't pull my gun out now without getting shot. Ren and Stimpy have there weapons trained on me.

Now. We just have to wait for Sands and El...to heroically enter the trap. Even if they realize that it's a trap, they won't leave me. So, we're all screwed.


	30. Chapter 30

Okay. It's dark. And I spoke to soon. Apparently Ren and Stimpy have decided that It's too much effort to keep a gun trained on me at all times. I'm handcuffed to a chair and gagged. It always seemed a miserable spot to be in in the movies and real life is worse. My wrists hurt and my head is pounding along with my heart at about a hundred and fifty beats per minute. This is not really happening. I will not panic. It won't do any good. I will not panic. That would be embarrassing. We have been through too much. Sand's has been through hell. I have no right to panic.

Yeah. You guessed it.

I'm panicking. Big time.

You know, dry mouth, sick feeling in stomach, racing thoughts and rapid breaths that are so easy to take when you have a disgusting piece of cloth in your mouth. It's too dark to see anything so I am listening and all I hear is footsteps doors opening and closing and hushed whispers. Only a small shard of light squeezes through underneath the door and it's not enough to see by. The guards are pacing and I hear Megan and Guinness talking. He is reassuring her that things will be over soon and I'm relatively sure that there is some mouth to mouth action going on. Okay, I'm certain of it but I really do not want the mental imagery. It's the last thing that I need when I am sitting here left only with my thoughts. This relative lack of sensory stimulation has the effect of dilating time. I have been sitting in this hard cold chair for an hour or two; an hour or two that feels like a week or two.

As if on cue, I hear shouts and bustling action. El's voice booms loudly, "Put your weapons down." I want to run out there and hug him. Then I hear an "oh shit" as gunfire starts. This is painful because the voice is Jeff's and it's obvious that they are now in trouble. Jeff is calling my name and I answer hoarsely. My throat is so damn dry. He steers right toward me with a few more curses and stumbles. He is immediately untying me and giving me a gun. Shit. I guess it's game time.

Time is dilated again, but for different reason. Adrenaline is pulsing through me and my heart rate must be a hundred and twenty. Suddenly, the overly introspective obsessive nerd that I am is overtaken by a primal creature that doesn't think, but merely reacts. There is no time to wonder if this is good or not. Sands is ambushed from his left and in a second, he is lying on the floor unconscious. Apparently, the attacker did not have a gun. El is quiet after a few gunshots in the main part of the warehouse. This is not good. Before I know it, I am shooting the ambusher and he drops to the ground. There is no time to think about the existential nature of this situation or about the ethics of killing someone after taking the Hippocratic Oath. I am shooting two other men and a woman with reflexes that I didn't know I had.

"What the hell?" Sands is awake and asking me if I'm alright. I inspect his head and find a growing lump. "I think I took care of all of the guards but El might be shot."

We don't have anymore time for discussion because Guinness and Goldstein are headed our way and I've been disarmed. They quickly disarm Sands and we find ourselves sitting in a corner looking down the barrel of two rifles. (Okay, maybe Sands isn't exactly looking but you know what I mean.) 


	31. Chapter 31  Dirty Laundry

"You don't want her. I'm the guy you want." Sands is appears calm.

"Ah, ever the noble one." Guinness smiles.

"Don't make me laugh," Megan is rolling her eyes. "Jeff, you are about as noble as a sewer rat."

"Fuck you." Sand would have glared if he could have.

"You did. and you enjoyed it, as I recall." Megan makes a point of looking at me. It's not new information for me and I try to look bored, which is a touch difficult to do at gunpoint.

Sands is handcuffed and sitting on the floor, leaning against the corner of the room. His glasses have slid down his nose a bit revealing flesh colored protective eye patches and a small amount of padding around the back of the lenses. In the dark it looks as if he has no eye sockets but only smooth flat skin. I'm glad that Guinness and Megan both seem to glance away from him. Good. Let them be uncomfortable. In a way, the CIA did this to him. It's their fault.

As if he's reading my mind, "Want to get a glimpse of your handiwork, eh?" he smiles and further tilts his head down so that the glasses slide down his nose.

I know he's baiting them but it's still painful for me to know that his own colleagues set him up, knowing that something awful would happen to him. My guess is that they didn't know it was going to get this complicated and messy. He didn't die. He is still here to make life difficult for them.

Of course, I'm part of the mess now, too and they plan to clean up. Right now, there's nothing to stop them.

He tilts his head back to get his glasses back in place. "Meg, you never knew how to tie up loose ends. What makes you think it's going to be so easy now? You screwed my over, both of you. You know, the thought of two of my exes commiserating over their hardships is actually pretty hilarious. Well, all except the working with Barillo senior and his lovely, and I might remind you extremely dead, daughter of his in order to get me into the hands of the good doctor Guevera. Lovely. I assume our government has been working with that wonderful family? Am I wrong? Guinness, you can tell me, dear. It'll be our little secret. That's if I'm still your pretty boy, now. I guess that cover of Esquire is out of the question. Not even photoshop could do justice to these babies." He starts to tilt his head again but refrains from giving them the full view.

"For fuck's sake, just shut it, Sands. Why the hell did they still leave your tongue in? You were so trusting. It was actually quite entertaining to get the reports back from ole 'Mehico'," Guinness is smiling. They are both still holding us at gunpoint. I wonder what's holding them back? They could have shot us both by now. "Barillo and his daughter were happy to cooperate. They had worked with our government for quite some time. 'Drug War?' It's one of the most lucrative scams of all time. Dear Ximena was happy to do our part. It was easier than we thought. You went like a moth to a fluorescent bulb."

"Yeah, well, I never said that I wasn't with stupid. She was beautiful. Of course it was even better when I heard her collapse to her knees and keel over dead. She was so young. She was so evil." I now realize that he had turned on the tape recorder earlier by leaning into the wall.

"Well, we are going to finish what we started as soon as our guys get here. It won't be long. There is no way we are getting caught and ratted out by a snake like you. It was so wonderful working with the Barillos, though. It is really incredible, the money the cartels bring in. We both did pretty well and we'll be able to retire in comfort with a lot more than the lousy twenty million pesos you were after." Megan looked at Guinness and it suddenly dawned on me, much to my disgust. She and Mr draft beer were an item. Ugh.

I realize Sands already picked up on this, damn him.

There is a commotion in the other room. It sounds like a gunfight between two gangs. 


	32. Chapter 32

Guinness and Goldstein are temporarily distracted by the commotion as well and Sands doesn't waste the opportunity. His fly is down and his hand is in his pants for a millisecond before he is brandishing a small silver pistol. I realize that he had already dislodged the handcuffs but was biding his time. I don't think passive acceptance is a concept that he's ever been familiar with.

And El is joining us before long. It isn't too difficult for him to subdue the two of them now that he had already dispatched the men in the other room. I smile. He certainly deserves his reputation.

In the meantime, Sands is making his way over to me cautiously with his pistol still trained on the culprits. "Fuck, did they hurt you? " He's already fiddling with the bindings on my hands and getting me loose from the hard unforgiving chair that has been eating into my flesh for an eternity. He is combing my hair back from face with his fingers as I squeak out "I'm ok."

"Yeah, you sound great." he says, kissing me quickly on the lips. "Let's get you some water. Actually, let me make a quick call."

Before long, I enjoy the distinct pleasure of watching the two people who have orchestrated the hell we've been living through as they are cuffed and placed into custody. Sands' tape is now evidence. And it looks good.

What the hell are we going to do with ourselves now? The main focus of our lives was staying alive and proving his innocence. All that is left is testifying in court, which is no small thing, but is less all consuming than fighting for your very existence. I still have more than a month left of my service in Mexico and I do feel horrible about letting them down. Yet I am not asking Sands to go back to what became a hellhole for him and he does need to testify in court within the next several months. He's not allowed to leave the country.

We spend our last several days together realizing that it's not to be. I cherish my pearl bracelet and I give him a metal chain with a heart that has my initials in it in raised letters that he can feel. "I'm not laying claim to you" I laugh because I want to do exactly that. "I just want you to remember this."

"Do you think I could ever forget?" He smiles and it seems for all the world that he is looking down at me and making eye contact through his shades. "In the past month, the worst thing in my life and the best thing my life both happened."

We both know that the other is filled with regret and pain but we are paralyzed by doubt, circumstance and inertia.

Author's note: Hang in there. There is more Sands awaiting you. 


	33. Chapter 33

His hands are half curled and his right forearm is carefully placed over his forehead and eyebrows without touching anything below. His hair splays over the pillow and he's breathing in fits and starts. If it weren't for the pain meds, he wouldn't be asleep at all. His injured thighs were propped up on pillows but he has kicked them around in his restlessness. The bright sun poured through the window despite the thin curtains and I was awake for the day. Sands wouldn't be affected by the sunlight. I was finally realizing that he was going to live and it was hard to imagine a life without the brightest ray even registering at all. I didn't realize that his breathing had lightened and that his muscles has tensed. "You have been as still as a statue and I can tell you are looking at me. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to stare, darling?" He smiles a tense smile. It's obvious that there's still pain. It's also obvious that he enjoys the attention. I think it was then that I realized we had some sort of bond.

I snap myself out of my reverie. I cannot believe I still think about him. That was nine friggin' years ago! I'm in private practice with a specialty group. Thank god I don't have to deal with the business end of things. I also work only forty or so hours a week. The kids are old enough that they don't require constant care but I still find that the reasonable hours are a godsend. Jake is in first grade and Sydney is in third. Yeah, Teddy and I are on friendly terms. It just didn't work out. We share custody. I do have a sense of shame about getting divorced already when the kids are so young. I think I know the real source of my discomfort with the whole situation, though. I was never really in love with Teddy. I had known him for years and when I joined mundane life again after my little adventure I think I needed to forget. I needed to find someone to occupy my mind and body.

Of course, my mind and body were actually taken hostage in the dusty Mexican city of Cuilican by a bloody gunman with long black hair, dressed as if he though he was Johnny Cash on steroids.

I have just dropped the kids off for a weekend at Ted's and I realize that I actually don't know what to do with myself. I am tired of the autopilot that drives me to work, to pick up the kids at school and to the occasional yoga class. The Pennsylvania suburbs are boring. Sure it was exciting to work on the 2008 presidential campaign and I was doing some volunteering again this election cycle. Still, I wasn't living the life I really wanted. But, then again, who does now really. I mean, I'm no spring chicken and I have to be realistic. Many women my age simply settle for taking care of their kids and family and letting their own life dwindle away. 


	34. Chapter 34

Let's just say I didn't expect it. You don't have to know that I dropped the groceries and sat on the floor with my head in my hands while the dog looked at me like I was insane. The dog was probably right. I also won't admit that I didn't have the guts to even answer the phone. What the hell would I say? What would I do? It was almost too much: like a dream I had for years, suddenly coming to life. Or like the shock of cardioversion reeling me back into the land of the living. Don't get me wrong. In many ways I was alive. My kids were one of the best things that ever happened to me and I loved taking care of my patients, when not drowning in EMR (electronic paperwork for those of you lucky enough not to be familiar with it.) My music was also starting to give me joy again. I was learning the guitar and getting better at piano and voice. Leaving Ted had given me back some of my life.

But I was still not the tingling sparkling shaking woman who participated in gun fights and ran around with a crazy, newly blinded CIA agent. Which is why I was scared to answer the phone. I put the groceries away, shaking as I did so and hearing the message over and over in my head. "Long time no see! How are things with you? I know it's been a bit and this is pretty fucking out of the blue but I'm a teacher and sitting here in the boring suburbs with nothing to do and, for some weird reason I thought of our time together. Oh yeah, and call me...or not."

I realized, after the kids were in bed, later that evening that there was no way I had any chance of falling asleep if I didn't act. So I forced myself to go through the caller ID and find the number that came with the voice from the past. I pressed call and felt the wings of butterflies flitting away in my stomach. I might just get voicemail.

"Hey, it's me. I don't need an eight hour Castro speech. Just let me know why you're calling and how to contact you...beep"

It was a relief...and a letdown. Maybe I could sleep.

Or not.

"Hey this phone tag thing is pretty annoying. Pick up if you're there." It's like he knew I was hesitant to answer the phone.

"Um, how the hell are you? I'm glad you called but I still don't know why."

"You know? Neither do I. But that's life, kiddo. You wanna meet or just become phone buddies or pen pals?"

"Ok, okay. Uh, where would you want to meet?"

"Does NYC at the main entrance to the Macy's across from Penn Station sound good?"

"Sure. How will I recognize you?"

"First, I haven't changed that much. At least I don't think so. Secondly, I'll be the blind guy. I don't think it will be that hard. Also, you have my cell number."

"True," I bet you can hear my smile as I talk. I'm almost giggling. "Saturday at one sound okay? I mean it could be later or earlier."

"One's fine." Silence "missed you". Click. 


	35. Chapter 35 - Holiday

It was getting close to the holidays. Not that Herald Square was ever deserted. Red Cross santas were already collecting donations and brought back memories of childhood Christmas seasons and shopping. I hadn't been there for the holidays in so many years I almost felt like old teenage self, as if meeting Sands was not enough of a time warp. Still, people were bustling along staring at their smart phones and everything was updated somehow, slicker. There were hybrid taxi cabs with video touch screens and no phone booths in sight. I hitched up my large shoulder bag and covered it with my right hand. I love New York but you can never be too careful. Of course there was no snow. It seemed that lately we've had tremendous blizzard or nothing. It was the holiday season, but not the one I remembered.

Waves of nostalgia over my childhood Christmas were quickly set aside when I saw him get out of the cab. He had a guide dog. He finally broke down and did the sensible thing. I wondered how long it took him to cave into reason.

Then I realized something. My legs had decided to start walking, no, jogging over to his side of the avenue. Thankfully, the traffic light cooperated. Suddenly, my arms were around him. He was startled for a second. But was smiling by the time my arms were around him. He put one arm around me and held the dog back with the other.

"You should really be more careful. She's trained to attack."

"It's so wonderful to see you again! You look good." And I meant the second part of as much as the first. He looked healthier and his black hair was shorter. It was still long enough to leave him a jaunty sort of frame for his face and to cascade over the top of his glasses.

"How have you been?"

"Okay, I guess. It's a long story."

"You'll have to tell me over lunch. Have you eaten? I know this place. It serves the best Mexican food."

"Mexican?"

"No, not really. I think we both had enough of that for a lifetime"

My mouth decided to talk without my consent, "Well, it was a good lifetime. Or at least a good time."

His hand found my face and before I knew it his lips were on mine and there was an incredible warmth. Actually, a full fledged fire. And I'm sure we made quite the interesting picture. People had to walk around us. 


	36. Chapter 36 Who are You?

"This is not right."

It's what we are both are thinking and is the first thing that comes out of my mouth. Too much has happened. It's been too many years. We are too different. He doesn't know I was married and, for all I know, he could be.

"Come on. We met for lunch. Let me take you. We should at least catch up." He grabs my elbow.

We end up at Lucy's Cantina Royale and we are having beer and enchiladas before we realize.

"Somehow, eating Mexican actually feels right" I wonder if he feels the same way. Even this little admission feels like I am putting myself out there. I'm feeling like I'm talking to a stranger.

"Yeah." He's washing down some refried beans and put his mug down before continuing. He lifts his head up and faces me with a crooked and sly smile. "You really didn't believe that crap about not eating Mexican again, honey. You're with me." The smile grows. "I'm sure you think of Mexico when oh think of me...and visa versa. And I know I'm not wrong ." He picks his fork up again and fishes around his plate before finding the enchilada and cutting a piece off. "Of course, this is pretty much the messiest stuff you can eat..if you're going to ask me."

'For fuck's sake,' I'm thinking. He's even cockier than before. Does he expect I'm going to melt when I'm with him? I'm a middle aged woman with an ex husband and two kids. I'm not the same person that nursed him back to health while we fought for our lives.

"So... What have you been up to?" I counter. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that." He goes back to his meal.

"Um, well, I have two kids and I'm getting a divorce." Why is my throat so dry and why don't I have an appetite? "I'm in private practice and I live in the, um, you know, 'burbs, in Nyack." My beer is a good distraction. "You?"

"Well, what do you want to know?" He smiles and his teeth are preternaturally white, particularly for a smoker. He takes off his shades and it's a shock.

"Do you like them? Had 'em done a few years ago. It's easier not to worry about people passing out or throwing up when I take my my specs off. "

If you look closely you can see that his eyelids have been refashioned with skin grafts and, of course, he must have prosthetic eyes. They're a dark brown. At first glance, though, they are incredibly real looking. If I hadn't known, I don't think I would have noticed right away.

"Oh my god, Jeff. They look so great. They did an amazing job."

"I guess," he shrugs and actually appears to look me in the eyes. He reaches down to pet his dog, who is sitting quietly at his feet and scratches the scruff of her neck. "Lucy's such a good girl." And I realize that this is not the same man I knew. This is a blind stranger with a familiar killer smile but newly graying temples and skin that is a little worn. I do not know why I am even here.


	37. Chapter 37 When do We Leave?

I have this urge to make an excuse and run; just run. This is ridiculous. I am throwing my marriage away, that is if there is any chance for it anyway. No no, this is just meeting an old, um, friend. It has absolutely no meaning. That's why I have trouble even picking at my guacamole and my quesidilla. I'm sipping at my beer like there's no tomorrow. This cannot be good.

As if he can see through my skull with those new eyes of his, he puts his hand on his chin and gives my the slightest wry little smile I've ever seen. "I know. This seems a bit weird and you're probably wondering why I got in touch with you."

Um, yeah..tell me! Wait I don't want to know. "Well, it would be kind of nice to know why we're sitting here." I almost start to give him a smile and a semi-eye roll when I catch myself...not that it would matter either way.

"This is about a mutual friend of ours. You may remember him."

"El? What's going on with El?" I'm sounding, and feeling, a little panicked. This just has a bad sound to it.

He puts his drink down and lets his glasses make eye contact. "There's a slight problem in Mexico."

"Okay, no. Just no." I almost pound the table with my fist. "I am not going back to that country ever again. We almost got killed. You may be up for risking your life but I have two kids and this is not happening." I take a deep breath...almost had forgotten about that inhaling and exhaling thing." I'm pretty sure people are staring at me but I don't even care. My stomach is in knots and can't even think about eating or drinking now.

"Will you at least hear me out before you finish your panic attack?" He swigs his drink. "There is no one else who will do this. And I owe him. We owe him."

Damn it all. I cannot argue. I lift my glass of water, and then place it down right on the same ring it created on the paper tablecloth. I'm really not thirsty but I don't know what to do with my hands. I'm sure he can hear my fumbling and sense my anxiety. No I'm not as anxious as I was. I'm starting to get mad. What gives him the right to interfere with my life after all of these years? I have a marriage that's collapsing and I have a career and two kids who need me. I do not have time for this. I want to walk away and leave him with the check. I want to be rid of him and all of Mexico and the memories. Part of me does, anyway. Okay, well no. Mexico gave me some of the best memories of my life. I didn't know it then but those days were magic. I just can't afford to go back to that now. There's too much here for me. Okay, well, my kids are at least something good.

"El's wife is missing." Again with the sunglasses that stare at me with intensity.

"When do we leave?" 


	38. Chapter 38 Dust and Diesel

The dust and distant smell of exhaust are clear. Nothing else is.

I'm driving and driving and the road never ends. I can't reach Sands no matter how far the ball of my foot presses the gas. I have to get too him before he bleeds to death. Then I'm trying to save El. The car is careening out of control but somehow there is no crash. I gasp.

I feel thin cotton under my cheek. The sheets are wrinkled and I am halfway out from under the threadbare excuse for a blanket. The pillow is nowhere at all.

The smell doesn't change, though and the cool nighttime breeze passes for what they call winter here as I wake up in my dream of Mexico.

I open my eyes and Sands talking quietly into his iPhone. The moon turns him into a silhouette and his hair shines as he dictates. He's still wearing his boots, for god's sake.

"Why are you still awake?"

"I'm trying to get organized about this. We should have some sort of plan, you know." You can read it in the morning. "Haven't really slept well since '03. When you can't tell day from night it really screws with your circadian rhythm. I'm sure you know all about the pineal gland and melatonin and everything."

I'm going to tell him when I realize that he already knows. This is Sands. Why not go for maximum drama when you can? It's not a martyr complex, although that can be part of it. It's control. It's about setting the emotional tone. He's a control freak. He manipulates other. He throws shapes. He sets them up. But we know all about that.

I only hope the control extends to El's girl. After what he's been through the entire situation sickens me. Sands regaled me with the sad story on our way over.

You see, it begins with the cartels. It always begins with the cartels. It begins with an old grudge. But of course that is always the way as well. I really wish they'd get creative down there and do something different. The constant kidnappings cartel recruitment and the overload of weapons. "We don't have running water but we have a Bushmaster." I am never coming back here once this is done.

And don't get me started on the cartels. They make people disappear. Apparently, even the loved ones of those who have lost everything time after time. I don't want to be here. But what we are here to do needs to be done. The feeling of my heart in my throat comes back it's fear and it's also resignation. We are here and there is no turning back.


End file.
